


mad and dead as nails

by EclipseWing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU Season 1, Archangel Dean, Dean as Michael | Michael as Dean, Gen, Identity Issues, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6990211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseWing/pseuds/EclipseWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your brother is missing.”<br/>That’s how it starts. But now Dean’s dead, gone, or maybe he never really existed in the first place. Maybe Dean was never real, and it was always Michael. Because if Sam knows one thing, it’s that Michael is all that is left.</p><p>S1AU tying in s4+ plot in which Dean once used to be an archangel and that’s not a good thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. breathing while you drown

_“What do you want, sweetheart?”_

_“You know what.”_

_The demon smirks, “Of course. But I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you **beg** …”_

_The blonde steps forwards, and there is the flash of a silver blade in his hands. The shorter guy stops, but he’s still smirking. “Don’t test me,” he growls out, “I might not have my grace but I can still end you.”_

_“Then why on earth,” the British guy spreads his hands, “Why on earth would I want to give you extra mojo?”_

_The blonde tilts his head to the side, “Why don’t you take a moment to consider that?” his voice is low, deathly dangerous._

_The demon swallows, visibly nervous, “So…” he shrugs, weakly, “ **Souls**?”_

_“Will you do it?” the other’s tone is flat. It’s his stance that gives him away, a thrumming nervousness beneath his skin that hints of desperation. The shorter man shifts but it’s hard tell if in fear or glee. “Can you do it?” the blonde asks again._

_“I can.” The man in the suit considers it, “And I will. Just for you,” he grins, “So tell me? Are you prepared to make a deal with a devil?”_

_The blonde scrutinises him and the other man gives a charming smile, cocking his head to one side. Then he nods shortly, “Done,” he agrees._

_“Great,” the demon says, “Now we just need to…” his words are cut off when the blonde grabs hold of the lapels of his collar and yanks him forwards, and presses his mouth down almost bruising on the demon’s mouth._

_There was nothing romantic about the kiss, and it ended almost as suddenly as it had begun. The blonde pulled back, and his eyes fluttered closed, lashes drifting and then he blinked them open._

_In a flare of white light shadows streamed out behind him, pale, vibrant things that spread from his shoulders, until for a brief moment it looked almost like a pair of giant wings spreading from his back._

_Then it was gone, and he blinks and it’s dark. The demon looks suitably cowed and the blonde nods. “Nice doing business with you,” he smirks, tone cocky, stepping away and spinning around._

_“Remember your side!” the demon sneers, snarling slightly, “I want Lucifer dead!”_

_“Oh, Crowley,” the blonde pauses, looking over his right shoulder at the demon, “Lucifer will die in time. Did you think I would let him live?”_

_Then he steps away and vanishes into shadow and the demon is left shivering at the crossroads, wondering what he had just done._

 

Sam never talks about Dean.

And to her credit, Jess doesn’t ask. He sets up that barrier and Jess respects it, doesn’t push, doesn’t prod, and doesn’t seek to know more than he is willing to give.

He still hasn’t told her about hunting. He’s still in the stage of deciding _if_ he’s going to tell her. There is a part of him that doesn’t want to drag that part of his old life into his new one. This - this was his escape. His way out. His way to forget everything that had happened. He’d left his father and brother behind long ago, and though the guilt had weighed on his shoulders he hadn’t looked back.

Then his old life crashes back in through the front door.

He lashes out at the intruder, expecting a common thief. (He briefly muses at how weird his life is that petty robberies aren’t even a worry). Sam is surprised to find the intruder react, blocking the blows and twisting his arm around. He goes with the move, but another sharp twist and his legs are kicked out from under him and his back slams painfully to the floor, as the man pins him down.

“Hmph,” John Winchester huffs. “I’m disappointed.”

Sam’s breath leaves him and he had no idea whether to be happy, or really, really angry. “Dad? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

John shifts back a little, giving Sam that inch to push up, twisting them over until he’s the one holding John to the ground.

“And I can manage just fine,” he snaps, “thanks.”

“Get off me…” John shoves him off and he stands, stretching out his muscles as he watches his dad stand up. “What do you think you’re playing at here… there are no protections… no salt lines… Sam, anything could just walk in!”

“Evidently,” Sam casts his father a scornful glance. “What are you doing…?” his question is cut off when the light flashes on.

Jess stands there blinking sleepily in the doorway. “Sam?” she asks, and her gaze slides to the other man. Sam instantly moves to stand beside his girlfriend.

“Dad, this is Jess,” he wraps an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder.

John’s jaw clenches but he doesn’t say anything. “I need to talk to you,” he directs to Sam.

“Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Jess,” Sam challenges, meeting John’s gaze.

“Your brother’s missing.”

Sam feels the grin on his face grow strained. He takes several deep breaths before dropping the arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder. “Jess… can you give us a few moments please?”

 

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” she stares at him bemused. “You have an interview on Monday.”

“I’ve got to look for my brother.” Sam mutters, running through his mind what his dad just told him.

“Your brother,” she doesn’t sound impressed. “Sam, I didn’t even know you _had_ a brother. Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother?”

Sam swallowed because how were you supposed to say you had an older, highly protective and slightly crazy schizophrenic brother? His breath catches in his throat and he stuffs clothing in his bag while perching on the bed. He meets her gaze squarely. “He… his name is Dean. He’s my older brother by four years and a pain in the ass.”

She nods, her gaze slightly understanding. She has brothers too, Sam knows, even if they barely talk and live the other side of the country. He takes her acknowledgement as a sign to keep talking.

“He…” he takes a breath, not knowing how to even begin explaining this, “He’s not well. Mentally,” he gestures at his head, “He used to be fine but then it just started up out of the blue. He was hearing voices all the time. And I…” Sam shakes his head, “I wasn’t there. I’d left. I was at Stanford and so dad… dad took him to a hospital. But now he’s gone and they… they don’t know what happened to him but he’s… it’s not safe for him…”

There is a light touch on his arm and Sam looks down to Jess’s hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay,” she says, gently, “You don’t have to explain. I know you need to do this and…” she stops, “Go. Look for him. I’ll try to reschedule your interview.”

He smiles weakly, protesting.

“Go find your brother,” she leans in close, and they don’t kiss, but it’s more personal seeing the truth in her eyes as she strokes his cheek gently. “Bring him back. Look after _him_ for a change.”

At times like these Sam remembers why he first fell in love with Jess.

 

Sam can remember when Dean was a kid. He can remember constantly moving, and his own constant questions that followed. Dean had tried to ward them off - he had tried to explain what had happened to their mother, he had tried to find a rational explanation for what their dad was off doing all the time.

Sam wonders if that was one of the reasons he had been so prepared to walk away from his father. He hadn’t after all been much of a father. He might have raised Dean, but it had been Dean who had raised Sam.

Then again Sam had walked away from Dean that night as well.

“Do you have any idea where to start?” Sam says, sitting uneasily in the passenger seat of the car his dad bought, once he gave Dean the Impala. He thinks stupidly that Dean must still have it. John seems a little at loss at what to do now he finally has Sam back, but with that reassurance they start searching.

 

They begin at the hospital ward that Dean was kept on. Sam had told Jess it was a hospital, but it was more of a psychiatric ward. Sam flinches away from the patients holding conversations with thin air and he tries not to think about his brother there.

It’s nothing like they portray it in movies. The hospital is bright and friendly. There’s a garden filled with flowers and the nurse on duty smiles at them as they pass. An older orderly leads them to the room Dean had been staying in, but they are forced to continue alone when she gets side-tracked by a patient. A red-head with large wide eyes clings to orderly’s arms, “What are they doing here?” her gaze is fixed on Sam and John, “They can’t be here,” she pleads to the nurse, “It’s not time yet. It’s too early! It’s _too early_!”

Sam and John move on, leaving the young red-haired woman to her hysterics. “I can’t believe you _left_ Dean here,” Sam mutters to his father. It’s not that it’s a bad place. It’s not. It’s the fact John left him. Left Dean. Dean who would never ever abandon them.

Yet Sam and John had both done just that, and Sam takes out his own guilt on his father.

John glares back, “Well, it’s not like you were around to help,” he snaps, and Sam bites his tongue from saying something equally cruel back. Now is not the time to be arguing.

Dean’s room is bland, the walls plain and the air stinking of drugs and antiseptics. The bed is made with military precision and that in itself is something that makes Sam feel both angry and saddened. It settles into a churning nausea in his gut.

He left his brother to this.

He should have been there to look after him.

Dean has almost no possessions in the room. Most were probably taken with him when he escaped. According to evidence and testimonies Dean picked the lock on his room, stole a spare nurse’s scrubs and walked out.

“There’s nothing,” John says in frustration looking around, “Dammit!” he kicks out, and his boot catches the edge of a nearby waste paper bin, scattering its contents to the floor. There are a load of dirty tissues and pencil sharpening’s, and amongst those are crumpled balls of paper.

Sam grabs one and carefully, slowly, unfolds it. It is lines and lines of what look like hieroglyphics. At first there is some variation to them, but then they slowly begin to repeat themselves over and over again.

John has pulled out another piece of paper, “What the hell?” he mumbles, and Sam glances up, staring at what are clearly sigils drawn over the paper in smooth circles that overlap, and are filled with sharp lines that form no recognisable letter. “What is this?” John leans back, looking grim, and Sam doesn’t have an answer.

 

"I've never seen symbols like that in my life before."

Sam shifts the phone to his other shoulder so he can page through the pages and pages of drawings, "None of them?" he asks, "There must be something…"

"I'm not fluent in everything, boy," Bobby scoffs, but there is warmth to his words that probably has more to do with the fact he's talking to Sam and not John who isn't even in the room. Sam doesn't know where he is, doesn't know what lead he's chasing down and honestly he doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to start a fight, not now, not with Dean missing. His priorities are clear. Find Dean. Then, after, he can fight with Dad all he likes.

"How long until you find something?"

"You've seen my library. A while. Give me some time, I'll look through this."

"Please…" Sam says, before he can hold it back, "I just… it's Dean, Bobby…"

The gruff hunter takes a while to answer and when he does his voice is thick, "I know," he says, "We'll find him. We will, okay? You have to believe that."

"Yeah," Sam says, voice hollow, and he hangs up the phone and goes back to work.

 

"I found a hunt," John says when he reappears. The words don't register at first. Sam is deep in a book on ancient languages, that's assuming it even is a real language and--

"What?" his head snaps up to where John is packing his duffel bag, "A hunt? _Now_? While Dean is still missing?"

"The trail's dry," John says, "And it's an easy hunt, just a Woman In White hitchhiker."

There are no leads, and Sam is floundering. He doesn’t know what to do.

"Dean's still missing," he says again, "I can't… _We_ _can't_ give up on him."

John shrugs, "Your brother knows how to take care of himself. Even if he is…" his face twists, and he obviously doesn't have the words to describe how he feels about Dean's condition. Sam can only begin to imagine how difficult it must have been. Not so much for John, but for Dean, trying to pretend everything was okay.

It had started with voices in his head. It had ended with hallucinations and full out schizophrenia and all Sam can think is that it wouldn't have happened, wouldn't have been as bad had he been there for his brother.

John does his hunt. Sam doesn't complain, because he can feel the same sort of hopelessness beginning to stir. Dean has seemingly vanished into thin air and there are no clues as to where he's gone apart from the weird symbols.

John does his hunt and Sam…? Sam keeps searching.

 

"Enochian."

Sam's been functioning for the past week on barely any sleep, and it takes a moment for the word to hit. "Enoch-what?"

“Enochian," Bobby stresses the word, "The language of the writing. It's the only one that fits and believe me, it took a god-awful time to find it, since it's deader than dead. Hell, it's practically made up."

Sitting nearby doing his own research on a hunt, John already has a mildly constipated look from talking to Bobby over the phone, but at that answer as to what the sigils and language are, the expression on his face doesn’t dissipate.

“Can you translate it?” Sam leans towards the phone, anxiously.

Bobby scoffs, “Boy, do you know what Enochian _is_?”

“Uh… no? A language?” Sam frowns at the phone.

“It’s the language of the angels. _Angels_.” Bobby sounds confused, “What information there is, is mostly made up, and what isn’t fake, is based on about five real pieces of data. There’s too much here… I… I don’t even know if it’s all real Enochian or if your brother made up random symbols.”

“But why would Dean write in angel language?” Sam asks nobody in particular.

“He’s not well,” John snatches the notes out from under Sam’s nose, “That’s why we need to find him.”

Bobby scoffs over the phone, “Don’t discount other possibilities, John. I know you’re narrow-minded, but assuming your son is just plain crazy should be your last resort.”

“Believe me, I’ve considered my other options,” John looks grim, “And that? That’s the best one.”

Sam bites his tongue to hold back the words. The accusations. That maybe Dean would be okay had John not dragged him into the hunting lifestyle. Maybe he wouldn't see nightmares in daylight were their lives not spent hunting monsters.

"I'll work on the translation," Bobby says, hanging up and leaving Sam sitting there with John who won't even look at him. It's like all the urgency into finding Dean is gone. Slipped away.

They are no closer to finding Dean than they were a week ago.

The phone on the bed rings again. Sam answers it without looking at the number. A woman's voice can be heard, "Sam?"

He doesn't recognise the person speaking, "Yes?" he says warily, "Who's speaking?"

John glances up with a frown.

“My name is Missouri Mosely. I’m a friend of your daddy’s.”

Sam turns to John, "He's here, do you want me to put him on?"

She laughs, "I'm not phoning to talk to John. I spoke to John once. Told him what was really out there. Set him on his path. Almost wish I hadn't. No, I'm phoning to talk to you, Sam. About your brother."

"Who is it?" John asks, and Sam holds up his hand, barely breathing.

"Dean?" he asks, "You know where he is? How?"

"I'm a psychic. Your daddy will confirm that. And I was minding my own business, chatting to some ghosts when something flared on my radar. Something big."

"Big?" Sam frowns, "What do you mean by _big_?"

"I don't know. But it's bright and it hurts to look at straight, but when I do catch glimpses it looks an awful lot like your brother. I can't tell where he is. But there's all sorts of stuff following his trail. Hell creatures mostly, and you'll be wanting to stay away from those. But there's something else that might help."

"Please," Sam says, "Anything you know…"

"A Trickster," she says, "Goes by the name of Loki."

"Okay," Sam lets out a slow breath, "Okay, thank you."

"Anything I can do to help, sweetie. Just… be careful, okay? And check in on that girlfriend of yours."

 

_“Hey, Jess. We think we might have a lead that we’re going to chase down. We’re getting nearer, and I’ll be back soon. I love you. Keep safe.”_

The voice mail cuts off abruptly with a beep. The phone’s screen stays lit for a few more seconds before going dim, just as a lanky blonde steps into view. He circles around the room, sighing in disappointment.

Jess stares at where her phone sits. It’s so close, but it makes no difference. She sits on a chain in the centre of the room, thick rope wrapped around her ankles and wrists. There is a cloth stuffed in her mouth. Her head still pulses slightly from where Brady had knocked her out.

Brady. Her friend. She’d invited him in with a smile and warm cookies and he--

He wasn’t Brady.

“It’s a shame,” Brady clicks his tongue, “I hoped that Sammy-boy would come home for this special moment, but I guess he’s just gonna have to hear this all second-hand,” his smile is sick and Jess glares at him. It only seems to amuse him further, “It won’t have quite the same effect but… oh well.”

Jess shudders in confusion and revulsion as her friend paces around her. His grin is leering and it makes a tiny part of her want to crawl away and hide in terror, but she can’t. She can’t even speak.

In front of her, Brady twirls a knife. Jess flinches back, a moan escaping her as she tries to curse him and encounters material.

Brady’s insane. Or high. Or maybe the thought in the back of her mind is right and this?

This isn’t Brady.

“It was going to be symbolic,” Brady laughs, “Mommy burnt on the ceiling and so would you, but there’s no point keeping to that now,” the knife catches the light and Jess closes her eyes as he raises it above her. She’s not a coward, but she doesn’t want to see her death descending.

There is a sudden flare of light, burning the inside of her eyelids red. She clenches her eyes tightly closed, and briefly wonders if this is what dying feels like.

She hears the clatter first. The soft thud as something hits the floor. Then the scream.

Jess’s eyes fly open and she immediately wishes she’d kept them closed. Brady stands, hand still raised above her but fingers limp, the knife long since dropped to the floor. His body is stiff. His limbs tremble and he’s glowing from the inside. His body flashes a fiery orange, and Jess can almost see his skeleton illuminated inside him.

His body is burning from the inside out. He’s shuddering and contorting, eyes burning first. At first Jess thinks that’s it, he’s going to drop down dead but then the skin begins to smoulder.

His skeleton is still flashing as he goes up in flames. They are muted tongues of fire that char more than burn. Skin peels away to ash and Jess can smell burning meat as Brady’s entire body begins to haze and burn like a smouldering ember.

Jess feels sick. Brady drops to the ground, scream cutting off. Lumps of flesh turn grey and he’s turning to charcoal and ash before her eyes.

He’s dead long before the rest of his burnt corpse hits the floor.

A tall figure steps forwards. For a moment Jess thinks its Sam.

It’s not Sam. She doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The man who steps forwards has shorter hair and it’s a tone lighter than Sam’s. His eyes though, they are the same.

She can feel tears clinging to her cheeks as the man holds up his hands, palms facing her. He’s unarmed. He’s alone too. Jess stares and wishes she could speak, could ask him what just happened but she doesn’t even know where to begin.

He steps forwards then, quickly and abruptly with brisk efficiency. She flinches back at this sudden movement, but all he does is unties her gag, and then moves down to undo the rope around her wrists and ankles. She curls away from his touch, but the man either ignores her reaction or doesn’t care. She barely has time to rub at her rope burnt wrists than he is dragging her up by one arm, “Come on,” his voice is deep, “We have to get you out of here. Others will show up soon.”

“Hey!” she protests, “Wait - _what_? What do you mean ‘others’?”

He doesn’t reply, dragging her towards the door. Jess barely manages to grab her phone from the table with one flailing hand as she passes. His grip is like a vice and Jess opens her mouth, not above screaming before she’s kidnapped--

A strong hand clamps down over her lips. “Don’t,” he warns her, his tone one of friendly advice. His eyes flare dangerously in the light. “We need to leave. Now.”

He drags her out, and she protests every step. Jess struggles, because she’s being kidnapped here. She kicks out at him, but the man is strong. And she’s not weak, but he is unnaturally strong.

He’s unnaturally strong and Brady _burnt._

The guy had no weapons. No weapons, no lighter, no blow-torch so how, then, did Brady burn?

There had been something wrong with Brady. Something more than drugs.

And this man…

It settles into her with a cold certainty. She doesn’t really believe it, but it’s there, a tiny niggling in the back of her mind.

He isn’t human.

He throws her in the passenger seat of the black car parked on the street and by the time she manages to scramble for the door handle it’s already locked. He closes the driver’s door and begins fumbling for the key. Jess struggles away from him, curling up against the leather seat, staring with wide eyes at him. His features are rough but handsome and his eyes…

His eyes are the same as Sam’s.

“You’re Sam’s brother,” she breaths in surprise. He stiffens, glancing up at her, but says nothing, “Dean, isn’t it? You… you have the same eyes.” Sam’s are on the brown side of hazel, while Dean’s are on the green side, but the shape and expression in them is the same.

The man - Dean - says nothing.

She wonders if Dean’s unstable. He’s ill, according to Sam, but the man before her looks sound of mind. He looks calm and collected like he knows exactly what he is doing. Even if it involves kidnapping her apparently.

“Where are we going? Why are you taking me? We should… we should stay… the authorities will be here soon. I’ll explain how Brady just attacked me, tied me up and you--”

And he what, she wonders. And he burnt Brady into a charred corpse with what?

“What are you doing?” she demands, scrabbling at the door, “Where’s Sam? _Dean_ … we have to back…”

The engine roars as Dean turns the key, “We can’t,” he bites out, “It’s not safe. More will come.”

“You mean more like _Brady_?” she queries, “He’s a thing? What thing? What did he want with me?”

He’s about to pull out, but for a moment he pauses, meeting her wide gaze, “They don’t want you,” he says, “They want Sam.”

 

Sam doesn’t know anything is wrong until Becky sends him an e-mail.

_"I heard about Jess and Brady - I'm so sorry, I can’t believe something like that would happen."_

_"What do you mean?"_ Sam types back, _"What happened?"_

 _"You didn't hear?"_ Rebecca sends back within the hour, _"Brady's body was found burnt to a crisp in your apartment. They think he was on some kind of drugs. Apparently they found stuff in his system but considering the state of his body it was kind of hard to tell. There was a chair with ropes but they couldn't find Jess. The popular theory is that Brady killed her and hid the body, but she may have been kidnapped. There is no news yet. I'm so sorry you had to hear this way."_

Sam insists on driving back to California, and John agrees with reluctance. It’s not like they’ve made any progress on locating the Trickster. They visit Becky (dealing with a shapeshifter while they’re there) but he finds no more than the authorities have discovered.

It makes no sense. None at all. They’re too late to find much, the apartment has been wiped from top to bottom and the case is quickly growing cold.

What makes even less sense is that Sam spoke to Jess only a day ago.

She’s been missing two weeks.

Jess’ number rings and for a moment he thinks that maybe she is missing. But then she picks up, “Hi Sam,” she sounds happy. Cheery.

Alive.

Now Sam listens he can hear the sound of a car in the background. She’s driving somewhere. Or being driven. But she has her phone… what sort of kidnapper lets her have her phone? What sort of kidnapped person doesn’t even admit to being kidnapped?

"What happened to you?” is the first thing Sam demands, “Becky said they found Brady dead and you... they think you're dead."

"I'm fine," Jess says, but he can hear the sound dim as she converses with someone else.

"Is he there?" Sam demands, "Is your captor there? Just say yes or no..."

"I'm not kidnapped but then I suppose that is what someone with Stockholm's syndrome would say. I'm okay. I'm fine, safe, that's why I'm moving."

"You were safe where you were." Sam stands, beginning to pace with anxiety. Now it’s not just his brother he’s missing - he’s missing his girlfriend as well.

But her tone changes suddenly from pleasant to frustrated, “No. I wasn’t safe. I haven't been safe since I met you, Sam Winchester. That's why they're after me. Because of you."

"Who? Who is after you?"

"Demons."

 

Jess finds out everything eventually. About hunting. The full story of how Sam and Dean's mother died. She's quite proud of herself for finding everything out because the thing is Dean doesn't offer up information. He doesn't talk much at all really, and there are moments when she thinks he's not even there, sitting so still and staring off into space as if he's listening to something beyond her comprehension.

Sam said he was schizophrenic, she recalls, but she can't see it. She can't understand why their father left him locked up in the first place because monsters and demons exist. They're real. Every evil thing she thought was nothing more than a bad dream is out there, and Sam and Dean and others like them hunt them down.

And now Jess does too. She picks up a shotgun and marches out there right after Dean.

They save three siblings in Colorado from a Wendigo. They save a mother and child from a ghost. They save a whole town from a scarecrow and damn it, Jess is never going to look at a scarecrow the same way again.

No wonder Sam hates Halloween.

If Dean was more like Sam he'd try to stop her from coming with him. And he does protest, but like everything Dean does it's weak. Half-hearted like he's not really paying attention. He looks goddamn uncomfortable in his own skin and looks like he doubts every single thing he does, which for a man who moves and hunts with such purpose at times makes him completely paradoxical.

But Jess dated Sam. She's well accomplished by now at wrangling out information and also knowing when to stop pushing. She gets Dean talking, at first reluctantly, but eventually he just shares tidbits here and there, although Jess suspects he's pre-empting her questions before she can ask them. It's almost like he can read her mind at times.

And maybe he can.

He's not human. Not completely. He must be - he's Sam's brother - but there's something else there. The same thing that burnt Brady to a crisp. The same thing that has him silent at times, staring into space like he's in another world. The same thing that has him moving around like he's a human who has forgotten how to live.

He doesn't eat. He just plain forgets until she points it out. He does remember to stop to buy food for her, but the sandwich she shoves at him goes forgotten on the dashboard.

She phones Sam. He's mad. Frantic. Dean's missing and now she is too. She doesn't tell him where she is, only that she's safe, she's alive, she's on a roadtrip.

She feels guilty for lying. Sam now thinks he has to find not only his missing brother but Jess too. She should save him the pain and at least tell him they're together, but Sam has been lying to her for years. She can keep this up a few months.

So she keeps phoning and she doesn't tell him about Dean.

Monsters are real and they’re after her. After Sam. After Dean.

Once the idea of a road trip sounded absurd. Crazy. But she can’t go back. Not now. Dean may have dragged her unwillingly out of her apartment, but once he had explained everything to her she hadn’t been forced along.

But she had continued following him, ignoring the various attempts he would make to keep her locked in motel rooms. Dean would leave, go off for hours, days at a time. She wouldn’t question it and eventually he doesn’t complain when he finds her in a local library, catching up with her missed studies.

“I can see why Sam fell in love with you,” he says stiffly after the third time he tracks her down to the library. He has an inherent ability to find her wherever she is. And though he doesn’t talk about it, barely speaks to her at all unless prompted, there is still that strangeness about him that drags her mind back her first thoughts when she watched Brady burn from nothing.

He’s not human.

But he's _something_ and Jess is going to find out what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: this is basically an opportunity for me to write badass Michael!Dean to have confrontations with increasingly badder bad guys. Starting with Brady and, well, they're only going to get better from here.


	2. inside your veins

Jo polishes fingerprints off one of the glasses stashed behind the bar. It glistens in the light.

A hunter leans over the bar with a grin and a leer. Jo ignores him. He's not the first to look at her like that, but she's Bill Harvelle's daughter. She knows how to look after herself.

This one is as simple as stepping to the side and letting her mother step forwards with a glare that sends the man quailing with his beer to the other side of the Roadhouse. Ash is over by the pool tables, laughing and Jo relaxes, safe and happy.

The door swings and she doesn't look up. The door swings every ten minutes or so with the hunters that pass in an out. Occasionally they even get a normal person.

Jo recognises most of the hunters around, by face if not by name.

She doesn't recognise the guy who sets up against the bar, elbows propped on the counter and an easy smirk on his face. There's something about the expression that makes Jo just want to wipe it off him. She grabs a cloth to wipe the counter with the express purpose of forcing him to move but something stops her. Maybe it's the way his shoulders are stiff, or maybe it's the way his gaze pans around, lazily, as if it means nothing to him. As if everything is superficial.

"Two of whatever is on tap," a pretty blonde, just as tall as the guy appears at his elbow. She's dressed in ragged jeans and a blouse that looks too big for her, as if she grabbed it from a charity bin or something.

Jo grabs the glass she had been polishing, catching the glance her mother sends her way. She needs to find out if the pair are in the know, or if Ash needs to discretely remind people to censor their conversations.

"Can I get you anything else?" Jo smiles at the guy. He's good looking, hair a dirty blonde and eyes that are a pretty shade of hazel, veering into green.

The smirk on his face is casual and slightly flirty but it's empty. His gaze slides right off her as if its not there and the beer goes ignored until the girl grabs it, shoving into his hands, "Drink," she tells her partner. They seem close but… not that close. The girl's movements are jerky, wary and the guy still too stiff, too uncomfortable even though he tries to hide it.

"Haven't seen you here before," Jo says, leaning over the bar, "This is a long way out to come for a drink."

"Not here for a drink," the guy says, and of course, obviously, the glass is gathering condensation and going undrunk, "Here to check out some connections. I'm trying to track a few… things…" he deliberates over the word for a moment and again the girl next to him shoves the beer into his hands. This time though his fingers curl around it, contemplating the drink before with a sigh and a shrug of shoulders he picks it up and takes a sip.

"My name is Jess," the girl says, "Quiet and sullen here is Dean."

"Jo," she smiles, gaze flickering over the guy. He's cute, it's a shame he doesn't appear interested in anything other than water dripping down onto the bar, "So what can I help you with?"

"Hang on," her mother is behind her suddenly, staring at the guy, "Dean?" she asks, and the man - Dean - nods stiffly, "Dean _Winchester_? John's boy?"

The laugh that escapes is harsh and ends far, far too quickly. To avoid answering Dean takes another gulp of his drink, then shrugs, "Some call me that," he says. Jo doesn't miss how Jess' eyes narrow.

"Well," Ellen grins, but it’s more of a grimace, "How is John? I haven't seen him a long while. And how's that brother of yours? Sam?"

Dean narrows his eyes at her, and his gaze flickers sideways to where the girl - Jess - is chewing her lip. She meets his gaze and the answer is slow to come.

It never does, because in that moment the door bursts open. A hunter appears, dragging a person with a sac over their head. Another hunter follows, and Jo thinks she might recognise them.

The person struggles, and the hunter - Walt, she thinks his name is - throws the person under the sac against a wall. The person - a woman from the looks of it - reaches out and then whirls around, only to freeze.

"What's that?" someone asks. The saloon has gone quiet, tension palpable.

The pair who brought the person look scared. Wary. "We think it’s a demon," Walt admits, "And we don't know what to do with it."

"Don't know…" talk bubbles up and then quiets as the woman under the sac laughs.

"You should probably brush up," she sneers, voice mocking, "Gonna' see a lot more of us soon."

"Get that thing out of my bar," Ellen snaps, but the hunters ignore her.

"You'll want to hear this," one of them - Roy maybe - says, sounding eager. "This demon here is rather chatty. Keeps going on about the apocalypse and the devil, thought we might be able to get something out of it."

"How the hell did you get it here?" someone asks.

"Devil's trap and holy water," Walt sounds proud. Ellen just curls her lip.

"And you still don't know a decent exorcism?"

The pair look sheepish. It's then that Jo notices Dean and Jess's expressions.

Jess looks scared. Wary. She's twisted in her seat and staring at the woman with curiosity but a healthy dose of fear. And Dean…

Dean isn't even looking at the demon. He's swilling the remains of his beer around the glass, seemingly ignoring the hubbub around him.

"Stay here," her mom scolds her, stepping out towards the hunters, "Someone grab an exorcism."

The demon doesn't move from the Devil's Trap that is carved into the ceiling of the saloon. Someone grabs the sac from her head, revealing a short blonde pixie cut and eyes that are pitch, deep black.

Jo shivers and stays where she is, peering over the gap between Dean and Jess at the demon who stands there with a smirk at the hunters. She tuts, obviously enjoying the attention, "Look at you," she croons, "It's almost cute."

Roy throws some holy water at her and she flinches. Screams. But it doesn't faze her much because she just laughs, "Oh, if this is what we have to go up against then this is going to be so, so easy."

"Tell us what you know about the apocalypse," Walt says, but there's no threat to his voice. No command.

The demon laughs, "I'd rather not," she shrugs, "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather you just exorcise me now. Soon it will be easy enough to climb back out."

"What does that mean?" another hunter snaps but she just grins.

Movement has Jo's gaze torn from the demon to where Dean's rolling his shoulders. "Are you going to…?" Jess asks him.

"Might as well ask," Dean says, downing the last of his drink, and dropping it back on the bar before spinning and sliding off his seat. He moves with lethal grace - like some sort of big cat or something - and the few hunters who see him step out of the way.

"Amy, isn't it?" Dean's voice is quiet, cutting through the jeers of the hunters like a knife, "Or are you going by something different nowadays?"

It's obvious the moment the demon sees Dean. Her eyes widen as the hunters turn to him, and they flash black. Then she's throwing herself backwards, as far away from Dean as she can until she presses against the invisible wall at the far side of the Devil's Trap. "Oh crap," she says, clawing at the invisible barricade, "This isn't… you're not… you're not meant to be here."

"Your kind keep saying that," Dean drawls, taking another step forwards. The hunters fall away from him with narrowed eyes and hushed whispers. "So , Apocalypse, huh? Seals, Horsemen and all that? Sounds fun. But you're missing a few players, aren't you?"

The demon looks choked up, eyes switching to black and back, "Michael," she says, like it pains her to say it, "Michael, please, I don't know anything, I swear…"

"You swear," Dean says, voice oddly stiff, "By who? God?" he laughs, "Didn't you get the message? God's gone."

"Azazel doesn't tell me anything, okay? I just do what he says, I don't know what his plan is, his instructions come straight from the cage… I don't know… please Michael..."

"Dean," Ellen says, "I know your father’s after a demon, but this one's better off exorcised, okay?"

If Dean hears her he makes no acknowledgement. But the demon freezes, staring at Ellen, and then her gaze switching to Dean, "Dean?" she asks, sounding confused, "But… Dean _Winchester_? I heard…" she stops, and slowly the fright slides off her to be replaced by amazement and a sick sort of glee, "I heard daddy sent you to the insane asylum. Heard you were losing it…." the smile wavers, "Oh," she whispers, eyes flickering over him, " _Oh_ ," as if realising something. She begins to laugh then, hysterical and gleeful, "Oh, defend us in battle we humbly pray," her tone twists, mockingly, "By the power of God, thrust into Hell Satan… but oh, you _know_ what's going to happen. You… you're _you_ , and your _brother_ … baby Sammy's born to greater things doncha' know…?"

Whatever those greater things are she doesn’t get to say them, because with a curl of his lips that is almost like a snarl, Dean steps forwards, ignoring the boundaries of the Devil's Trap and in one swift movement, grabs the demon by her throat and slams her against the wall. She chokes a little, and black smoke swirls in her mouth.

One of the bulbs that is on the fritz finally choses that moment to die.

Jo doesn't think it’s a coincidence.

"Oh, sweetie, don't do that," Dean chides, voice like ice, "Don't run. Where've you got to go? Hell? Daddy? Azazel doesn't care about you, not with the bigger picture in mind. And we both know what that is."

"Oh don't we?" the girl laughs.

"Amy… or I'm sorry, is it something else now?"

"Meg," the girl's eyes flash black but even though Dean's in the circle with her, he still has the upper hand, "What about you? Because you seem to be a little…" she spits out a mouthful of blood, " _Lacking_ ," she drawls.

"Stay," Dean says, voice a sharp stab of a cold blade, "Away from my brother," then he drops Meg, stepping back to the outside of the Devil's Trap, ignoring the way the hunters are staring.

The demon falls to the floor, still coughing up blood, "Which one?" she asks, grinning, "You're gonna' have to be more specific." Jo's gaze roves over from where Jess sits, hands clenched into fists and unmoving by the bar, to where Ellen tries to drag Dean away only for him to shrug her off as if she isn't there, "You've fallen further than he ever did," Meg sneers, chuckling, "Who is like God?" she spreads out her arm, "Huh, Dean? Who is like God?"

"Tell Azazel I send my best wishes," Dean says, and then he utters a phrase, harsh and guttural and like no language Jo has ever heard.

With a scream Meg's head is flung backwards, black smoke billowing from her mouth. The hunters step back in alarm, but Dean doesn't move. Just watches as it tries to escape, reaching out and swirling around but it’s useless. The words of the exorcism still hang in the air pulling it down down down through the floorboards until nothing is left but the faint tang of sulphur and a girl gasping on the floor.

Then Dean is there, brushing back blonde hair and holding the girl's gaze, "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Is she gone?" the girl whispers, "Is she…?"

"She's gone," Dean says, "Go back to your family."

The girl who had been possessed breaks down crying then. One of the more sympathetic hunters grabs a blanket for her. Dean straightens, meeting Jess's gaze across the saloon and Jess slides off her seat as if to leave.

"Now hang on a damn minute…" Roy slides into Dean's path as he makes to leave. Dean's glare has him shaking but he doesn't move, "What was the demon talking about?"

"Get out of my way," Dean says.

Jo doesn't know the name of the hunter who pulls their gun, but suddenly at least five weapons are out, "You seemed pretty buddy-buddy with that demon," someone accuses.

"Put your goddamn gun down," Ellen snaps, "You going to shoot John Winchester's eldest boy?"

"Winchester?" someone asks, and cocks their weapon, "Sure, why not?"

Dean doesn't look the least bit scared. He meets Jess's gaze again and she crosses her arms, looking impatient.

"Put your weapons away," Ellen hisses, "Not in my saloon."

"But you heard 'im," Walt protests weakly, "He knows about plans for the Apocalypse. About Horsemen and demons escaping Hell and…"

"And he just saved that poor girl," Ellen gestures to where Ash is helping the girl who was possessed away, "He exorcised her when none of you fuckers even knew the goddamn words. If you want to fight you do it somewhere else at another time? Got it?" Nobody moved, "Got it?"

Slowly, reluctantly Roy lowered his gun, but still didn't move from Dean's path. "Meg's right," Dean says, meeting their gazes evenly, "There's a war coming and you are so unprepared for it. And it's hilarious," his laughter is not in the slightest bit amused, "It's the best goddamn joke in history, and here you are, pointing your guns at me."

With a curl of his lips he slips past, surprisingly agile for a large man. Jess slides into his shadow, and then the door swings and they're gone.

Two empty beers sit on the counter, a dollar note between them the only sign that they were ever here.

 

"I met your son."

"Ellen?"

John answers the phone with confusion that quickly turns into a mix of shock and puzzlement.

"Yes, it's me John Winchester. And I swore I'd never talk to you again, but I heard you'd lost track of Dean. Well I met him and that pretty blonde he was hanging around with. And I just about managed to stop a dozen hunters pumping lead into him."

"You what?" John sounds choked and Sam leans over to snatch up the phone.

"You saw Dean?" he asks, "Is he okay?"

"He's crazy," Ellen scoffs, and Sam flinches slightly, only for Ellen to keep talking, "He stepped into a Devil's Trap to have a heart to heart with a demon."

"He what?" John tries to snatch the phone back but Sam moves out of his reach.

"What do you mean?" he asks. His voice is level but his heart is racing.

"I mean the demon took one look at him and looked like she'd seen death itself. That might not have been a problem but she knew him. Knew him enough to know which taunts hurt. Pissed him off enough for him to send her back to Hell with an exorcism I've never heard of before."

"But he's okay?"

"Sure," Ellen scoffs, "The hunters weren't happy about it, not the way he was chatting with the demon like it was Sunday dinner. Something big is going on. The demon taunted us about it, but your brother… he knows what's coming. None of the usual crowd were too pleased about that, but he walked out in one piece. But you're not the only ones on his trail now."

"Do you know where he went?" Sam asks. His hand is trembling from one too many sleepless night, "Any clue, anything he or the demon said…"

There's a pause, and Sam can hear a girl speaking in the background. The phone is shifted around before Ellen finally replies, "The demon called a name when she first saw him. She begged him. And I've only seen one or two demons in my time hunting, and none of them begged. But she begged. And she called him Michael."

Michael. Sam mouths the name. It means nothing. It's not Dean's name. It's not even one of his common aliases.

"Thanks Ellen," John sounds tired. Tired and for the first time he looks his age, "If you remember anything else…"

"Hang on," Sam says, something she had said catching his attention, "You said he was travelling with a girl. He… he has a girlfriend?" He can't imagine Dean travelling with any girls. He can't imagine Dean telling any girls the truth.

"Didn't act like a girlfriend. Hang on - Jo got her name…" there's a pause, and then the answer comes through, "Said her name was Jess."

The phone slips through Sam's numb fingers.

 

"St Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protector against the wickedness and snares of the Devil…"

Dean doesn't say anything. And that's how Jess knows she's right.

"That's what the demon called you. Michael."

And it makes sense. It makes sense like no other theories do. Dean hasn't been bitten or turned into a skin-walker or vampire. He's not running from his family because he's changed, but because he's more.

"I always thought angels had halos and wings," Jess says quietly. Dean isn't saying anything. She's not even sure if he's breathing, does he even need to breath? "But I looked it up. And you're more like a nuclear weapon. A heavenly nuclear weapon. Some of the stories… in some of the stories they call you the Flood."

Still silence, but Jess has grown used to having to monologue.

"I don't know how you manage it. I don't know how it works, but… do you remember _everything_? You can't, surely, you'd go mad, so some of it? Or do you just know that you _are_?"

"I don't know."

She's not expecting an answer so it takes her a while to register Dean has actually spoken. She turns to him, and his eyes - green side of hazel - have changed colour.

They're a yellow-side of gold.

"I don't know," Dean says again, voice stiff, unsure and of course he's unsure, she realises. He's like an amnesiac who found out who he really was, but has long ago forged a new life. But oh, that's not right. The analogy doesn't fit. How can you try and compare what it must be like, being something that's as old as creation? And obviously he wasn't always. He used to just be Dean, just be human, and now to be so much _more_ …

She doesn't understand. She can't even begin to understand, and looking at the man next to her it's obvious he doesn't either.

"What are we doing?" Jess asks, as the car slows to a halt, "Or y'know. What are _you_ doing? Besides pursuing your fascination with old trees?"

And this tree must be ancient. It towers above them, branches blocking out the sky above them. The bark is warped with age and its roots go deep. It sits in the field like it owns it, like it's the king of the land. She pauses, overcome with its beauty for a moment.

"It's not old," Dean says, voice rough and wary, "It's only been there about twenty-five years."

"You're kidding," Jess says. There's no way a tree grew this big in twenty-five years. "What did they feed it, super fertiliser or something?"

She leans against the fence, and Dean pauses by her for a minute, searching for words, "Ghosts are what are left your mind and soul," he says, as if that's relevant, "If you die but don't move on then that's all that's left. Your body's gone but part of you gets left behind. They go mad eventually but…" he stops, and Jess just waits. Listens. "Your mind," Dean continues, shakily, "Your soul and your body. That's all you are. I…" there's a pause. A hesitation and then he corrects himself, almost as if he's afraid to claim the truth of what he is. What he was. "Monsters aren't like you," he says.

Is that what he thinks he is, Jess wonders. A monster?

"Their souls are fundamentally different. Twisted. Mutated."

"Different," Jess argues, because surely not all monsters are bad.

Dean shrugs, "We call it grace," he says, "What an angel has. It's not a soul. It's not as fine as a soul. It's too rough. Not refined. There's no emotion. Not much thought either. It's just pure power really. Crude. Rough and like a bad first draft of what you are. You are, after all, His perfect creation."

"Grace," Jess says, staring at the huge oak tree, "Are you saying this tree is so large because there's an… an angel's grace around here?" She pauses, eyes widening, "Is this your grace, here?"

And with that Dean swings over the fence, strides up to the tree and raises his hand to rest his palm on the tree trunk.

The light is blinding. Jess flinches away and then looks back as it fades. The leaves rustle and it's still like a setting sun, but she can see the light. It's white. So white it's almost blue with how pure it is. It swirls in the air as if drawn from every crack in the warped bark. The tree shimmers as if unwilling to give up its food source, and then with a whisper of leaves the light twists away until it hovers in the air in front of Dean.

He stares at it a moment, then pulls something from his pocket. The light pulses and then with a wave of his hand it drips like water into the glass vial in his hands.

He half-turns, but even from this angle Jess can see the frustration in his gaze.

"It's not, is it?" she asks.

"No," Dean says, "Another angels. I think I know who but it's hard to tell." He's frowning, as if contemplating something and it's almost enough to hide the disappointment in his expression.

Jess drops her chin onto where her crossed arms rest on the fence, "And you're looking for your grace?" she asks, "To stop the demons and whatever their plan is?"

"Something like that," Dean says, still staring at the vial, "It's not that simple."

Jess shrugs, "When is anything simple?" she laughs, and that's when her phone rings. She answers it with a grin, because only one person ever phones her this regularly, "Hi Sam, how are you--"

"Put Dean on."

Her smiles flickers and Dean's gaze zeroes in on her.

And she might be imagining it, but for a single moment she sees sadness and terror flash in his eyes, but then it's gone and he's just Dean. Or at least, he's the stiff, cold, stone-like human she's come to know over the past few weeks.

"What, no 'hi, Jess, how are you?'," she asks, "Sam, I'm hurt."

"Jess…" she can hear his frustration and takes pity on him, turning an inquiring gaze on Dean.

But he's turned away. Jess sighs, audible over the phone, "He doesn't want to talk to you," she says, hearing Sam's gasp of surprise, "I'm sorry."

"Jess, please, I just want to talk to him, just tell us where you are…"

Jess hangs up on him.

 

“You look pathetic,” is the first thing Bobby says when he opens the door. It's gruff but full of warmth as he ushers them in and passes them beer that tastes a bit watered down, but Sam barely notices. "I heard the rumours on the hunter grapevine. Apparently the demons are gunning for an Apocalypse, but nobody’s talking. Your brother apparently knows more than he should."

"He's travelling with Jess," Sam says. He's just resigned. Resigned and sad. He knows his brother is out there. He knows Jess is out there. He knows they're together. He knows they're safe.

But they're not talking. At least not to him.

"Your girlfriend?" Bobby questions.

Sam nods. John hovers in the corner nervously while Sam just collapses on the sofa, "He… I don't know anymore," Sam sighs.

"He doesn't want to be found," John says gruffly, "Maybe we should just stop."

"You want to give up on him?" Sam rounds on him, but all he sees is the same pain reflected in his dad's own eyes.

"Well I've got something. It's not much," Bobby grabs a pile of papers and books from his desk, "But I managed to get some of the Enochian translated. Most of it is Bible scripture. Revelations actually. But that sigil repeated over and over on the one page?"

He passes the page in question to Sam. Sam takes in the sharp straight lines that start as a sideways cross, bending around and then looping over and over before ending in several sharp straight lines forming an almost 'v' at the end.

"Yeah?" Sam says, "What does it mean?"

"It's the sigil of a being that I don't even know really exists."

"A demon?" John demands, eyes narrowing.

"Wrong side," Bobby grimaces, "It's the sigil of the Archangel Michael."

 

"So Dean… what? Had a mental breakdown and now thinks he's an angel?" Bobby shakes his head, "I know the kid. He's not the sort'a person to just lose it like that. Not without good reason."

"How do you explain it then?" John snaps, angrily. The pair being in the same room is bound to lead to disaster, "He'd zone out for hours. He was becoming a liability on the hunt…"

"And so you ditched him?" Bobby scoffs, "You could'a sent him to me, could'a…"

"No," Sam shakes his head, "We couldn't have. Dean… I went to see him once and he freaked. Knocked two nurses flying, gave one a dislocated shoulder and…" he stops, because the memory physically pains him, "He needed to be somewhere safe. Not just for him, but for other people."

Bobby's silence is almost condemning. "I don't believe it," he says, "And until I see Dean I'm not going to believe it."

"Well you should," John growls out over his beer, "Dean's either far enough screwed in his own head that he believes whatever fantasy he's cooked up, or something's got to him and had the same effect. We need to prepare for all eventualities, the worst of which is that something's got him. Something bad."

"How bad?" Sam asks.

John answers by opening his journal and laying it on the table. Bobby leans over to look at it, blocking Sam's view. What is on the page has Bobby stiffening and shaking his head, "That ain't real," he says, gruffly.

"What?" Sam asks, "What is?" he leans around Bobby, but it's hard to see. He catches sight of a few words, his own first name and a gun and…

John snatches up his journal, grip on it tight, "It’s a weapon that can kill demons," he says, "And I think I know where I can find it."

"Kill… we're not going to kill Dean!" Sam snaps, "We're going to do what Bobby says. We're going to talk to him. And then we're going to help him…."

"And if we can't?" John asks, "What if it's the worst scenario? What if something bad got to him? What then, huh?"

"I don't know," Sam glares, "But we aren't killing him."

John's lips tighten and he doesn't reply.

 

Daniel Elkins is an old friend of John's, in much the way most of his 'old friends' are. They usually greet him first with a shout and a weapon in his face.

Had John known Elkins had the goddamn Colt he would probably greet Daniel the same way.

As it is he can't greet Daniel. Elkins is dead, killed the very creature he spent so long trying to eradicate.

"Vampires? Vampires aren't real!"

"Oh, they're real. Just very, very rare," John says, "Damn near extinct, I'd reckon. And they've got the thing we want."

Sam has that look on his face that suggests he's going to argue. John's very, very used to that face and with this whole thing involving Dean he's been seeing it increasingly often. Sam somehow manages to wrestle down his protests though, his arguments and annoyance and listens to what John tells him. He's still stubborn. He wouldn't be Sam if he wasn't stubborn.

John skirts the warehouse but it's unnaturally quiet. For this time of night the vamps should have been awake and active. But there is silence. Taking a risk he sneaks inside.

And almost trips over the body in the doorway. The vampire - and it must be - has no head. It's been sheared clean off with a precision that John is almost impressed with. The blade that did this must be wickedly sharp and the owner very skilled. The swing has been placed precisely between the vertebra.

The warehouse is empty save for dead vampires. Most are beheaded with the same neat clean strokes. A few have more sloppy cuts but are dead all the same. And three…

Three aren't beheaded as much as incinerated. Their bodies are nothing more than empty husks, eyes burnt entirely out of their skull.

John's gaze grows dark because that means it wasn't hunters that got to the vampires but something else.

Something bigger.

He heads back to where he had agreed to meet Sam. He's picking his way up the driveway towards the road when a noise has him swinging around, drawing his gun.

"Woah!" a girl freezes, hands flying up, "Uh… don't shoot?"

She's not a vampire, he realises, spotting the machete sheathed at her hip. She's one of the hunters.

"You took out the vampires?" he asks, and only when she nods does he lower his gun. "How?" he asks.

"With… machetes?" she sounds confused.

"Some of them were burnt out husks," he says, "How did you do that?"

"That?" she blinks, but she's very relaxed, very quick on her feet, "Oh, some fire and-- _Sam_?"

John hadn't noticed Sam appear behind him. He certainly didn't expect Sam to recognise her, "Jess?"

The girl - Jess - is smiling in greeting but it's also worried and her gaze flickers around and--

Of course. She's been travelling with--

"I've got the gun."

He doesn't know where Dean appears from. The shadows of the road somewhere maybe, but all John knows is that one minute he's not there and the next he is, whole and well and Dean.

And that's when Dean spots them. There's barely a reaction. Not even a blink, just blank green eyes sweeping over them, "Well," Dean says, voice flat and lacking inflections, "This is going to be interesting."

 

Sam stares because he can't believe it. After all this time, all the searching, the sleepless nights, the dead ends… after all this time it's when they stop looking for Dean that they find him. Alive. Well.

Quiet.

Jess hovers next to his brother and Sam wants to sweep her up in his arms but he doesn't. He's still staring at his brother. There's something different about him. He's changed since Sam last saw him.

Considering the last time Sam saw him he was heavily sedated that isn't saying much. But before that. Before he left. He remembers Dean's sharp smirk and even sharper tongue.

This Dean… this Dean doesn't say anything. His gaze is oddly blank and his stance is still.

"Dean?" he says, asks really because his brother is right there and he hasn't seen him in four years and they've been searching, looking but now…

It's Dean. It has to be. It can't be anything else.

"Sam," he sounds uncomfortable. Like he's scared almost which is ridiculous, when is Dean scared…?

And then John starts talking, "Where the hell have you been?" John snaps, taking an angry step forwards, "Your brother and I were sick with worry looking for you!"

Sam's half expecting apologies and 'yes sir's so he's surprised when Dean doesn't move. Green eyes are almost flinty as he looks at John, "You are not relevant," he says, almost dismissively.

"Dean," Jess says quietly, a small chiding thing but Sam's brother either doesn't hear or doesn't care.

"Not… what does that mean?" John snaps, "You just took off! You're not well, and you didn't even phone us or leave a note!"

"You _left_ me," Dean's voice is cold suddenly, and so not Dean that Sam flinches, "You left me there and you expect me to… what? Come crawling back?" He sounds scornful, "I did that once," he shrugs, "Served a greater plan. But now? I have got my own plans, and neither you, nor Sam play a role in them. You are irrelevant."

There's something odd about the way his brother is talking. His words are too clear, too well formed, no slurring speech and…

He's not contracting, Sam realises.

That's when John lunges forwards and Sam has to move, before John can hit Dean in the face. He uses his body as a shield, blocking Dean from John's sight, "We're here to _talk_!" he reminds his father, pushing him backwards.

This position is unfamiliar, standing between his brother and father. Usually Dean is the one between them.

Is this what it was like for Dean, Sam wonders. No wonder he lost it.

"So talk!" John snaps, "But don't you dare tell me that Dean's okay because that…?" he waves a hand at where Dean stands next to Jess, "That's _not_ okay!"

"Then we use our words," Sam snaps, turning to Dean, mentally reviewing the speech he's prepared, gone over several dozen times and then decides against it when he sees his brother standing there, stiff and alone. Jess is there, but there's a good few inches between them, and that small distance feels like everything.

"Dean--" he begins, and that's when the second interruption happens.

Sam doesn't know where he appears from. One minute he's staring at his brother and the next this new guy is there.

He literally appears out of nowhere.

The man is short, pale brown eyes and unobtrusive. Someone Sam would walk past without looking at twice.

There was nobody there and then he _was_.

The guy’s gaze locks immediately on Dean. Before Sam can move the short newcomer is there, doing what Sam had longed to do and crossing those inches of space that separate Dean from the world around him. Dean's eyes widen in surprise seconds before the guy punches him across the face.

"What the _hell_ happened to the plan?"

And Dean…

Dean laughs. His lip is cut, and he spits out blood as he straightens. The newcomer is a small ball of anger and rage it's almost cute but there's something dangerous about him that just makes him seem all the more deadly, "Oh so **_now_** you show," Dean's lip curls, "Long time no see."

"So here I am," the guy crosses his arm, "Minding my own business. Imparting some judgement to some unsavoury individuals when you explode onto my radar. What's going on because I know the plan just as well as you do and you're _years_ too early."

"Who the hell are you?" John shouts.

"Nu uh," the newcomer snaps, ignoring him, "the big boys are talking, Winchester, so _hold your tongue_."

And John chokes, opens his mouth and…

Nothing comes out. Silence. His eyes go wide and Sam and he both go for their guns.

Dean doesn't even look at them. "Plan? What plan?" Dean scoffs, "I did not think you cared that much. If I recall correctly, you ran away."

"I--" the guy looks like he's seconds from defending himself, but then frowns, "Recall? Have you _forgotten_?" He steps back in horror, "I'd hoped I was wrong," he sounds disgusted, "I'd hoped I was mistaken. I tracked you all this way to make sure you weren't going to do something stupid and here I find it's too late. You've already fucked yourself over."

"Like you care," Dean snaps, "You ran away." His voice is like thunder.

The newcomer steps back, gaze wandering first over Dean, then to where John, Jess and Sam stand. He doesn't even appear to notice the weapons pointing at him. His expression grows long-suffering, slowly turning into confusion and anger. "What are you doing, Michael?" he asks.

"You're Loki," Sam realises suddenly, remember Missouri's words.

Loki looks mildly impressed, "Have a lollipop, Sammy," he drawls, but his attention keeps switching back to Sam's brother.

"Let him talk," Sam threatens, "You let my father talk or wooden stake or not I'm going to shoot you!" Loki doesn't move, but Dean's gaze slides over to him, and then he inclines his head.

And John can talk. Albeit splutters but…

Sam's heart skips a beat because he knows he has dreams. He knows he sees things that come true. Not that his dad knows but if he has true-dreams then Dean…

What can Dean do?

Loki is looking at Dean with the same expression Sam is, "I thought you were human," he says, slowly, "What did you…?" his eyes widen, "You don't have your wings," he whispers, horrified and disgusted, "You don't have your wings so _what the **hell**_ are you juiced up on?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," Dean's voice is icy.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play games you can't win?" Loki sneers, stepping towards Dean like he's going to punch him again, "Besides, what can you do to me the way you are now? Are you going to kill me? Going to strike me down?" The trickster's laugh is bitter, "Cast me to the ground, lay me before kings… that's all you do, isn't it? Even now that's what you're still doing."

"You," Dean says slowly, "Have _no_ idea. You were not there."

"Dean," John says again, " _Christo_."

"Oh for…" Loki rounds on him, "He's not possessed! Haven't you guessed?" His gaze flickers to Dean, "Haven't you told them?"

"Stop this," John snaps, angry suddenly, "Dean, stop this. Give me the gun and come back with us. We'll find you help. There's medication, people you can see…"

"We're not going to make you come to the hospital," Sam interrupts, furious at John for even bringing it up, "Let's just talk. Share what we know. I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want--" he stops, because the Trickster's face has twisted into something close to horror.

" _Hospital_?" Loki asks.

"Didn't you hear?" Dean's voice holds a familiar note of sarcasm, "John Winchester's eldest boy is insane. Hearing voices, seeing monsters beneath people's skin…"

"And they _locked you up_?" Loki looks horrified, "They locked you up in a mental hospital?"

Dean's meant to speak up now with more sarcasm and bitter words but instead he's silent. It makes Sam's skin itch at the mute, blank gaze on his face. He's like a statue. Like a robot. Like someone shut down almost all the parts that makes him Dean. That make him Sam's brother.

"They locked you up and they _left_ you," the Trickster sounds both disgusted and scornful, "That's both ridiculously ironic and yet so, so pitiful I don't even know which is better. It's like the biggest joke they could have played on you and wow, no wonder you went off with the pretty blonde here."

"Pretty blonde here knows you're not really a Norse God. Not if you're _his brother_ ," she jerks a thumb at Dean. Her tone is idle, but not complacent.

Loki whistles. "I'm impressed," he says, smirking, as if this is all really, really funny.

Sam thinks it really, really isn't.

"I am glad someone finds it amusing," and there's so much venom in Dean's tone it makes Sam flinch.

Loki shakes his head although whether still amused or horrified Sam can't tell, "I didn't know what was going on when you flared up all broken and patched together and now… _now_ I wish I'd just let it lie." The Pagan God steps backwards, gaze roaming over the group, "And I thought our family was bad," he rolls his eyes, "But I think you've just managed to top Lucy."

And Dean flinches. A full body flinch as if Loki punched him again. He laughs but it's bitter and when he speaks his words are not meant to be kind, "So which of us is worse? You who has been playing Pagan God like it is going out of fashion or me," he spreads out his hands, "You can see how well this is working out."

"So I got a little disillusioned. Sue me," Loki shrugs, "They still get their judgement. Even you must be able to see the justice in that." When Dean says nothing the Norse God shakes his head angrily, "At least I was _here_ ," he snaps, "At least I was around. How long have you been gone? What did you abandon? Do you even know what they're doing in your absence?" His gaze flickers skywards to the rolling clouds and dark night about them, "Can you _hear them_?" he asks, gesturing to the stars pin-pricking through the black, "Do they know what you are now? How far you fell? The great Michael… the great general… _now_ look at you." His gaze drops to where Dean stands.

"There's a plan."

"You keep saying that," Loki snarls, taking a step back, "You keep saying that but I'm beginning to think it doesn't mean anything."

When Dean looks up there is anger in his eyes. His shoulders are tense and the air shimmers around him, shadows growing darker and his eyes…

His eyes flash. They don't slide to black like a demon or silver like a shapeshifter. The hazel burns just the wrong side of gold until it looks almost yellow.

John chokes.

Loki takes a step backwards, "Games change, Mikey. Like it or not plans change too."

Dean shrugs, the yellow fading back slightly, but still there in the background of the hazel. Seemingly uncaring Dean turns away, turns his back on Sam and John and the Trickster God who isn't, "Just as well there's always a plan B."

"Wait up!" Jess lurches after Dean first. Then Sam moves, shouting after his brother.

"Dean!"

Then the Trickster's in the way, face twisting coldly, cruelly, "He traded one messed up family for another," he sighs, seemingly in disappointment, "No wonder he's so disillusioned."

"You--" John's gun is up and the trigger slips, but if the bullet ever hits the Trickster Sam doesn't see it.

The Pagan God looks bored, "I am a lot more powerful that you are," he says, snapping his fingers and suddenly John's gun is gone. So is Sam's for that matter, because he grabs at an empty belt, "And I may not be happy with what Dean-o's got up with his sleeve, whatever that may be…" Loki pauses to shoot a nervous, almost scared glance over his shoulder, "But I care about what happens to him. To see him like this…"

"Him," Sam snaps, "You keep talking about _'him'_ but you're not talking about Dean, are you?"

Loki's grin is wide and terrifying, "You're a smart one, Sammy!" He even gives Sam the thumbs up like he's five or something, "And sure, I'm talking about Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean let me guess he's the good son, _right_ , the older brother who listens to daddy."

And surprise must show on Sam's face because the Trickster laughs.

"And you _ditched_ him. Left him. As good as locked him up and threw away the key. Oh how _ironic_ ," he whistles.

"Dean!" Sam tries to move past but again Loki is there, eyes cold and head shaking. He's half Sam's size, but he's still intimidating.

He's not human.

"Stay away from him," Loki warns, "You don't want to get hurt now, do you Sammy?"

"Is that a threat?" John snarls.

"A warning," the Trickster shrugs.

"He's my brother!" Sam glares, "I'm not leaving him alone."

"He's your brother, yes," Loki sighs, "But look at what you did to him! You treat him like a tool. A weapon. Daddy's sword," again he laughs at a joke only he gets. "But Michael's got bigger things to worry about now, and he's not the only brother who’s pissed off at being locked away."

"What _the hell_ is that meant to mean?" Sam jabs a finger at the Norse God.

"Oh you'll find out," the finger is patronisingly brushed aside, "Don't say I didn't warn ya'."

And then he's gone, between one blink and the next and Dean--

Dean and Jess have long since vanished into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: I firmly believe Azazel was a fallen angel. Nothing in SPN canon can dispute that, in fact it almost supports it. If any old demon could create demon-blood kids surely they'd have done it already? He also states he has to be 'invited' into the house, which was why he went around making deals. So while Dean's still mostly human with memories and grace his eyes flash a gold that is a very, very similar shade to Azazel's yellow-ochre.


	3. so you pray to god (to justify)

His shoulders ache. They feel bruised. Maybe he's just imagining it. There are no scars, no remnants of the wings a part of him knows should be there.

Yet as much as he misses them the very thought of extra appendages is unfamiliar and so foreign it makes him feel sick. He should probably eat something. Human bodies need sustenance and he's all too human at the moment. But he's got enough power to run on, at least for the moment and eating is one of the things that gets forgotten. There's so _much_...

He's startling aware of his own body nowadays. He's a sack of meat and bones and chemical processes. Molecules moving and reacting and pumping around in a veritable miracle that he'll never quite wrap his head around.

"Hey, Dean! I know you can go for three days straight without stopping, but some of us here need sleep and I'm not kipping in your car again. It's freaking uncomfortable."

Humans are amazing creatures, but he'll never understand them. Demons at least he gets…

He pulls over to the nearest motel. Jess practically leaps out of the car, and he's slower in following. In the back of his head voices whisper like whistling pine trees. They rise and fall in volume, but never go away. Not really. Not since he first heard them four years ago, just tinnitus in his ears back then. Ringing and rustling that grew louder and louder until they turned into sound, into light, into a frequency that somehow made sense to his battered mind.

"Hey," Jess appears in his line of vision, waving a hand in front of his eyes to get his attention, "You with me?"

"I'm with you," he deadpans, and she narrows her eyes at him. He feels like he should grin, wave away her concerns, but the choirs are still singing, still debating plans and actions and movements and--

"I got us a room," Jess says, face blank but eyes worried, "I know you don't sleep, but you can perch somewhere for the night, okay?"

"I don't perch," he says, and for a moment he manages to sound almost normal, "I'm not a bird."

"No? Well you've got me fooled," she shouts over her shoulder.

Whatever that means.

The choirs are still singing, leaves still rustling in his head and he forcefully tunes it out. He's used to working through music, and he can work through this. He'd let it cripple him once. He'd let himself zone out for hours- _days_ and he'd come back to John staring at him with wide, disappointed eyes--

Always so disappointed, why does he always disappoint his father, no matter what he does it's never enough--

~~I threw my brother into hell for you what more do you want?~~

It didn't matter. Things were different now. There had been a regime change and he had to keep on the ball.

He leaves Jess sleeping when he's sure she won't wake. He slips out quietly, drawing out a knife. It's handle is smooth and well-used but it is not the sword he is used to wielding, it is not the one that burns in his memories.

It doesn't matter.

It will do.

The hotel clerk is falling asleep as Dean passes, head lolling down onto the guest book and then jerking up in some fruitless attempt to stay away. Dean waves his hand as he passes, and the man’s eyes droop further, head slumping as Dean slips past unnoticed.

The power wrapped inside him is nothing like the grace he is used to, but it will do. For now. It will have to.

He's still searching for his Grace, but he's running out of time.

Outside the air is crisp, fresh with just an edge of rolling humidity that suggests rain later. He slips into the shadows, knife finding its way to his hand as he moves silently around the motel like a predator. The top predator. The top predator who has been declawed and had his teeth blunted, but he's dangerous all the same.

A shift of movement in the shadows, a rustle of clothes and Dean moves. In two quick steps he's whirling around, grabbing his pursuer and throwing them against the side of the nearby building. They go with his throw and move to defend themselves when he brings the knife to their throat, throwing his body weight against them to keep them pinned.

"You're following me," he says to the man, voice low and dangerous.

The shape, several inches below him in height doesn't move. He’s still. Too still.

The man...

No.

Not man.

He can see shadows beneath the human flesh, and his eyes narrow. Not demon either, he's seen their trueforms now. They used to lurk around the hospital, and he still doesn't know if it was just to spite him or to keep an eye on him. Probably both. Hanging around to freak him out back when he didn't know what they were and to make sure Sam's older brother wasn't a risk to their operations.

There had been something wrong with him, everyone knew that.

They just didn't know what.

Now though, now they do.

They _all_ do. Including those he left behind when he fell.

The angel in front of him doesn't move. Doesn't reach for his sword, doesn't knock him aside. He has the strength, has the ability whereas _before_ in another time there would have been no competition. _Now_ though-- "Sir," the angel says, tone rough and respectful.

"Who sent you?" Dean demands, "What was your mission?"

The angel wrapped into a human vessel pauses. His throat pulses at where the blade presses against his larynx. It won't kill him. Won't even hurt him. But it's a position of power and Dean uses that, holds the lesser angel pinned…

"You," the angel gasps out, " _You_ sent me. Michael…"

He stiffens, gaze scanning over the grace of the angel he holds pinned. He doesn't remember, can't recognise--

He must be more screwed up than he remembers. Not that he remembers, and that? _That_ right there is the _problem_ \--

The angel in front of him is a Power. One of the lower choirs. He doesn't recognise him.

"Castiel," the angel must sense his confusion, "My name is Castiel."

Slowly Dean eases away the knife, stepping backwards. The Power slips a bit down the brick wall but doesn't move beyond that, still staring at him, "You don't remember," he says. His voice - god his voice is rough. Fucked out, Dean thinks, and scared. Like he's nervous.

On the run.

"Do you remember the plan?" Castiel asks him, "Michael…"

And yes, that's the problem, Dean wants to shout. He's Michael and Dean and he doesn't know. There's too much and at the same time there is too little. This is one of those times when the answers don't come to him, and he's left staring blankly at the angel who had been following him.

"They know you're here," Castiel says, voice filled with urgency, "They found out and they… they're still going with the original plan."

Plans, plans and more plans. He doesn't know which one Castiel is talking about.

"Look Cas - can I call you Cas?" he doesn't wait for an answer, "Are they after you? Do they know you're here?"

Cas shakes his head and - why the nickname, he wonders. He's made the angel seem smaller somehow, less than he is.

He's not of god anymore, he's just Cas and maybe that's why Dean does it. He needs someone else with him.

Gabriel certainly isn't.

"Okay, good…" he closes his eyes, trying to think.

Trying to remember.

But all he remembers is falling. Pain. The flare of grace and then--

He swallows down the confusion and pain and fear. He can't afford it. He's above that, he's the First Angel, he can't…

He's not much of an angel.

Castiel watches him silently. Ever-patient. Loyal too, Dean realises, to him, to Michael, to whatever broken conglomeration is standing before him.

"What were my last orders to you?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse.

"You…" the angel pauses, "You told me wait and listen. To watch and make sure nothing changed. You said you were going to do something but then… you didn't come back." His head tilts like a bird, gaze flickering over Dean. Was his expression not so impassive, Dean would say the angel was checking him out, "What did you do, Michael?"

Dean sighs, because he thinks Castiel can tell that without him explaining, "I must have had some sort of plan," he says, more to himself than Castiel, "I'm still sticking to it. I think. I can't remember. I need my grace… I… I lost it and…"

"No angel has found it," Castiel says gravely, "None of us have taken vessels for a good few hundred years now but there are whispers in the higher choirs… They're planning for the cage, for the demons…"

"Yeah," Dean sighs, "Well so am I. But I need my grace for it. Cas, can you look for it?"

He realises too late that he's asked this angel. Asked this near stranger as if he’s a friend.

Angels don’t do friends. They leads. They follow orders.

So Dean repeats it, the words cold on his tongue, "Go search. Track it down. Does Heaven know you're here?"

"Nobody except you," Castiel says, "I work for you, Michael. Not Raphael, not Zachariah…"

"Good, good," Dean nods, "Keep them off your back." He reflexively glances down the shadowy motel car park but it's empty, "They'll take their own vessels soon enough," he says, "I'll need my grace before then. Search for it."

Castiel nods sharply. "And you?" he asks, "Will you be okay, Michael?"

"I'll grab some hex bags, scrawl some sigils," he shrugs, "Contact me when you're in a safe location. Stay off their radar. Keep an eye on what the demons are doing."

"How shall I contact you?" the angel asks, his blue eyes impossibly wide.

"Buy a phone," Dean pats him on the shoulder, pulling out one of the fake business cards from his pocket and tucking it in the angel's rather baggy trench coat.

The angel nods, stepping backwards and turning away. He walks a few steps before spreading his wings - gun-metal grey - and taking off to the sound of wing beats. Castiel, Dean thinks, angel of Thursdays.

Huh. This just got more interesting.

He leans back heavily against the motel wall, feeling the ache of phantom wings that are not there. "Oh father," he breaths, head rolling up to look at the sky, "Would you be proud, now, I wonder? Or would you make me my own cage beside my brother’s?"

The sky doesn't answer him.

"Screw you," Dean closes his eyes to the stars above him, "It makes no difference," he opens his eyes, burning with what is left of his grace and the souls powering him. His eyes can be seen in the reflection of a nearby car, a sickly gold.

"It doesn't matter," Dean says again, because this is it. This is the only goddamn right he will allow. "It will burn."

 

Sam sits at the bar, elbows propping him up as he stares mournfully at the amber liquid in front of him. It burns as it goes down but it doesn't burn nearly enough.

He had seen Dean. He had found his brother and Dean…

Dean had walked away.

Sam wonders if that's how Dean felt when Sam left for college. When John left him in that hospital.

Always being left behind…

But now it's Sam who’s left behind, trailing in his big brother's footsteps and hunting things in his spare time. A reaper. A rawhead. Several half-dozen vengeful ghosts whose bones are either cremated already or are attached to the most random of objects.

He swills the alcohol around his glass and wishes that despite all the people he's saving that he didn't feel so useless. So alone. At the end of the bar Jo and Ash are arguing over something. Ellen is serving drinks to a group of hunters who bustled in half an hour ago and John--

"Well, well, well," someone crows from the other side of the bar, "John Winchester! I didn't think you were still alive!" From where he's pouring through various exorcisms that Bobby's passed their way, John straightens, obviously recognising the man and slowly Sam turns to look at the hunter approaching his father. He's dark skinned and with narrow eyes that sets Sam on edge. He's too cheerful, too jolly for a hunter as he reaches out slapping John's shoulder.

"Only just," John jokes, face actually cracking a smile, "Hard to believe it. How you doin', Gordon?"

"Good, good, here, let me buy you a drink," Gordon waves to Ellen who rolls her eyes and ignores him, "She'll get here," the hunter sighs, turning to John. His eyes settle for a moment on Sam's dad and then slides past to where Sam sits, "Is this…?"

Sam wants no part in this, but John turns with a proud smile that is more of a grimace, "This is Sam. My youngest. Sam, this is Gordon Walker. He helped me out on a hunt a year or two back."

"Nice to meet you, Sammy," Walker reaches out a hand.

Feeling slightly buzzed and petulant Sam ignores it, "My name is Sam," he says, "Nobody calls me Sammy."

Except Dean, but Dean isn't here, Dean isn't even Dean anymore and the thing that is left wants nothing to do with him.

Walker's smile grows thin but he shrugs it off, turning to John, "How's your eldest? Dean, isn't it?"

And maybe because he just doesn't like this guy, or maybe because Sam's used to worrying about his brother he thinks he hears a note of something that is more than idle curiosity in Walker's voice.

John plays it cool, "Dean's great. Out on a hunt at the moment. Took down some vampires only last month, I know how you hate those suckers."

"Yeah," Walker's expression flickers and he takes a sip of his drink just as Ellen finally makes her way back to the bar, "I thought he'd split from you. I heard he exorcised a demon some stupid rookies dragged in here…"

"I heard about that too," John finally - _finally_ \- appears to notice Walker's attitude, "Impressive."

"Yes," Walker's smile is thin, "Very impressive."

 

The saloon closes in the late hours of the night. John is passed out drunk somewhere, and Sam's still on the border between drunk and sober. He probably should have drunk more but he can't afford to. He can't focus on the now, only on what he has to do next. This hunt, this kill, find Dean, find Jess…

He steps out of the Roadhouse to dad's truck and he's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice the shadow until it's too late.

The blow hits him across the back of his head and he crumples, dazed but not out. He opens his mouth, tries to push himself up and then his assailant is on him with an odd smelling cloth and a knife.

In the back of Sam's mind he knows what that means. This isn't a monster. This is a human.

A hunter.

He throws his head back catching the man across the nose. He hears a grunt of pain and tries to throw him off but the drugged cloth is pungent and weighs his limbs down like lead weights. He tears it off, choking slightly and lashes out with an elbow, managing to stumble to his feet.

He doesn't get far. He's not fully under, but he's woozy and his attacker is still in one piece. He tackles Sam about the middle, weight landing heavily on him and pinning him down.

Sam recognises him then, and oh he knew he shouldn't have trusted him. Walker glares down at him, knife out and ready and--

Sam punches him. The knife goes flying and he shoves Walker off him. He's not out of practise any more.

He also not armed. Sam gets in two punches and a kick before Walker pins down his drugged limbs and presses the cold metal barrel of a gun to Sam's head, "If you scream, little Sammy, I'll blow your brains out."

Sam swallows, stiffening, "What do you want?" he snarls, voice quiet.

"I want to know about your brother," Walker sneers, "Because even drunk John ain't talking about it. But I know the truth, see, I got mates who were at this place when he exorcised that demon. But he didn't just exorcise it, did he? He had a nice little chat with it first."

"I don't know anything about my brother," Sam hisses, "He's missing. He's ill. He's schizophrenic, I doubt anything he says makes any sense…"

"Oh, but we know that's a lie. Not even insane people make nice with demons. No, there's something big going on. I've seen the signs, somethings coming. And you and your brother are right in the middle of it."

Gordon shifts his weight, boot grinding down on Sam's wrist cruelly.

"I was on a demon hunt a few weeks back. That's the first sign really, because you used to only get two or three exorcisms a year. In the past three months? I've done five. I found this one in an airport lurking in the air conditioning and crashing planes. I set up a Devil's Trap, some holy water and that? That was when the lights in the whole building blacked out."

"How is this related to my brother?" Sam asks weakly.

"Because he was there," Walker sneers, "Freaky ESP powers of his and all. He didn't even say anything, just lifted a hand and--" Walker clicks his finger, "Dead demon. You can't tell me that's normal, Sammy."

"S'Sam," Sam spits.

"Sammy," Walker ignores him, "There's a point when you go from human to monster and your big brother? I don’t know what he is but I'm pretty sure he ain't human anymore," he shrugs, "Wonder what that makes you, huh? Is it genetic? Maybe after I deal with your brother I'll deal with you too, just to make sure. The demons keep whispering about you."

Sam shakes his head, vision going spotty from the drugs in his system. He coughs slightly and Walker readjusts his grip on his gun. "He's possessed," Sam chokes out, "We think he's possessed, we're going to fix it…"

"Oh I'll fix it up alright. I'll put a bullet through his skull. Several." Walker smiles at the thought of this and Sam scrambles weakly, trying to get free, trying to escape, "No use Sammy," Walker taunts, "Heard Dean-o's the overprotective sort and you? You're gonna be _bait_."

That's about the time a metal pipe hits him in the head sending him keeling onto his side.

Sam sucks in air, startled. He blinks, vision clear of the sky above his head, spotty clouds racing across the night. He tries to sit up, only to fall back weakly.

Someone appears in his vision and for a moment he thinks that maybe angels do exist, and maybe that's why they went off together, they're actually angels, Dean's his guardian angel and Jess…

Jess is not an angel. She's dressed to hunt and she's wielding a metal pipe like a badass as she leans over him, "Sam? Oh my god, are you okay?"

She helps him up, and he stares at her, "Jess?" he asks dumbly, "What are you doing here?" She had been with Dean, hadn't she?"

"Later," Jess says, "Let's get away from the psycho first."

"But… Dean?" Sam manages to ask as Jess helps him up. Walker is lying in the dirt, head bleeding and clearly out of it. Sam kicks him vindictively as he passes, almost tripping himself over. He plans to send John out to deal with him, get him arrested or something hopefully just as bad.

"That's why I'm here," Jess says, "I need your help, Dean ditched me."

"Join the club," Sam rolls his eyes as they head towards the Roadhouse.

"I'd love to. But we have to stop him."

"Stop him? Stop him from doing what?"

"He's planning to open a Hell's Gate."

 

Sam wakes to arguing. He has a splitting headache, probably from whatever concoction Walker tried to drug him with. The first thing he does is stumble to the nearest source of water. Once sated and his headache has receded to a pulsing behind his eyes, he finds his way to the source of the arguing.

Jess is sitting by the bar looking very, very alone with John and Bobby shouting around her. Jo's rolling her eyes and Ellen is occasionally inputting her own thoughts.

"He's your son!" Bobby is saying, "And you want to kill him?"

"Dean's gone!" John shouts, "That _thing_ is not my son--" he stops, wondering why everyone has fallen silent and whirls around to see Sam standing in the doorway.

Sam ignores them studiously, clutching his glass of water and heading over to Jess. He just about remembers what she told him the night before. And judging by the way she's sitting hunched over ignoring everything she's not said much more.

"What did you do with Gordon?" Sam asks, as if he hasn’t walked in mid-argument.

"I was all for shooting him," Jess shrugs, "But Ellen managed to call a friend of hers and he got arrested."

"Good riddance," John snorts, like the pair hadn't been playing buddy-buddy earlier that night.

Sam turns to Jess, "I like your plan better, if you ever need help let me know and I'll help you hide the body."

She shoots him a winning smile back and Sam has forgotten how much he's missed her.

"Jess," he says, sitting next to her and grasping her hand in his. She interlocks their fingers and meets his gaze weakly, "Are you okay?" he finds himself asking.

"Brady was a demon," she says, and just like him it wasn't what she was planning to say. She shivers, "He just… I thought it was the drugs. He knocked me out and tied me up and just kept _talking_ …"

"I should have told you," Sam laments, "I should have at least had protection laid down or something…"

A squeeze of his fingers tells him he's forgiven, "I think if I knew what was out there, I'd want to get away from it too," she tells him. Ellen and Bobby are looking uncomfortable, like they want to give the pair space but then Jess keeps talking, "Dean saved my life. Brady - the demon possessing him - he was going to kill me to get to you. He called it 'symbolic'," her words turn into a sneer, "Dean appeared from nowhere. Burnt the demon out. Bright light, flames, and the demon was dying inside of Brady…" she shudders as if she can still see the burning body behind closed eyelids.

But that means Walker is right. Dean does have powers.

"Dean burnt out a demon," John's voice startles Sam. He had forgotten his dad was there, "Burnt out?"

"Killed it," Jess shrugs.

"Dean… _killed_ …"

"It's _not_ _Dean_!" Jess shouts, rounding on them, "Can't you _tell_? Surely you must see it, you know him better than I do after all."

And maybe he does. Maybe he has seen.

But Sam doesn't want to admit it. If he admits it, that makes it true.

"He's not just ill, is he?" Bobby asks. John's shoulders slump, eyes rolling upwards and mouth muttering a prayer under his breath.

"Don't bother praying," Jess curls her lips, "He says God's not listening. He ditched. Left the kids to fight it out."

"Says who?" Bobby asks.

Jess swallows, pressing her lips together, "He dragged me out of our apartment. Didn't even introduce himself, just said we had to go before others came. I only realised he was your brother because I spotted the resemblance but…" her expression is forlorn, "He's cold, Sam. He's like ice and fire and the sun and sure, sometimes he's fine. He's smart-alec quips, charming smirks and references that sail over my head. But sometimes he's not. He's like the sun and ice and fire and…" she stops talking for a good half minute. Everyone is silent, just watching her, "We found this tree," she says, leaning away from Sam a little, "Massive thing. An oak that looked like it had been there since the Civil War except it hadn't. I found pictures and twenty-five years ago the field had been empty. Dean told me it grew because of the power there. The power of an angel's grace."

"A what?" Sam blinks, the words not making sense.

"You know," she says, "Michael. They call him Michael."

"The _archangel_." It's more of a question than a statement.

"Not just any archangel but _the_ archangel. He's still Dean, Sam," she turns to him, "But he's not, and he is and I can't tell. I don't know him. There are times he seems like a different person, but more and more it's blending together until if they ever used to be separate then they're not anymore. And honestly? I don't think there ever was a difference. I think they're the same."

"You're saying Dean is an angel?" John scoffs.

"Wow," Bobby blinks, "Never would have seen that coming. From Sam, maybe, but Dean that little hellion?"

"He's not an angel," John snaps, "He's sick. Or possessed… his eyes were yellow. Like… like _it_."

Jess shrugs, "I don't know which is the better option right now. Because demons are scary. But Michael?" she glances to Ellen, "You saw him, you know how it is. Demons are bad but Michael's _terrifying_."

"Dean's terrifying?" Sam repeats.

"Sam," Jess's voice is full of pity and he flinches a little away from her, away from the truth that he might have lost his brother. John's still shaking his head with denial.

“Angels aren’t real,” John says.

Jess huffs in frustration, “Ten months ago I didn’t think demons were real. Turns out? I was wrong. So yeah, I can believe in angels. And Dean… there are times he’s hardly there, or he’s arguing about stuff I don’t understand with Tricksters, but he had the radio playing heavy rock the other day. We had to keep stopping to do these random hunts because he couldn’t just move on without helping.” She sighs, running a hand through her hair, “I never met Dean before, and yeah - there are times he’s a complete jerk and times he says stuff that makes no sense, but he’s not a bad person. Whatever, whoever he is - it’s not bad.”

“Michael is an archangel,” Sam points out, “That’s like the… the top dude. Excuse me if trying to match up the image of a guy with wings and armour kicking the devil to hell with my older brother who used to pretend a spoon was an airplane so I would open my mouth. That’s going to take some time.”

Jess’ lips twitch, “He used to do that? Seriously?”

Sam sighs, leaning back in his seat. He tries to ignore the way John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, “Yeah,” he says, remembering almost fondly, “He also used to tickle me until I opened my mouth to laugh and then he’d shove it in, but I don’t remember that. I think he made that up.”

Bobby is nods slowly, "It explains the Enochian," the grizzled hunter shrugs, "the ESP powers, the way he chats with demons…"

"Archangels chat with demons?" Jo pipes up from where she is perched on the end of the bar.

"I don't know," Ellen shrugs, "How's he an archangel anyway? He does someone just become an angel?"

"They don't," John says darkly, "This… this Michael is possessing my son or something… Dean isn't…"

 _I'd know, wouldn't I, if my son-brother-family was an angel,_ Sam hears, thinks, feels even though the words aren't uttered.

_I would have seen it, wouldn't I?_

Except maybe they had seen it. Maye the signs were there.

"I went to visit him once," Sam admits, quietly. John's arguing with Bobby and so Jess and maybe Jo are the only ones who hear him, "Right near the start when he was first admitted to hospital. I'd left for Stanford only four months before and I was pissed. Pissed at Dad for letting Dean get that way, pissed at Dean for allowing it to happen. I…" he shakes his head, "I don't know. Maybe I thought it was a trick to get me to come back. Maybe I thought it was my fault because I left…"

"It wasn't your fault, Sam," Jess soothes him, hand slipping into his.

"Isn't it?" Sam's voice is hollow, "I went to visit him. It was a nice place, a bit dull, but you could see it was helping people get better. And I got there and I saw him. He had a cut above his eye. He was wearing white clothes, and was curled up in a chair and he… I've never seen my big brother look so small before. He'd been on a hunt with dad, and he'd freaked out. Not over the monster but over a person. Got convinced he had to hunt them instead, that they were all wrong. Dad had to knock him out just to get him away. I headed across the room to him. He didn't look at me. Didn't notice me. He was staring into the distance as if he was miles away, mumbling words that I don't even think were in English. I tried to get his attention but he didn't even notice. I…" Sam drops his head, "I'm not proud of what I did next…"

"Sam--"

"I shouted at Dad. Ripped him a new one right in that hospital. And I… I kept expecting Dean to jump between us like he always did but… he didn't even notice."

Sam glances at where John is paging through Bobby's books looking tired. Tired and weary and worried and it's not his fault. Sam knows that now.

This is beyond their control.

"We almost got kicked out," Sam shrugs, "Dad stormed off and I sat with Dean, hoping he might snap out of it. He did and then I wish he had just stayed in whatever place he had been in."

"What happened?" Jess asks.

"He freaked. Not at first. At first it was like he'd woken up, puzzled, confused as to why I was there and then… then he looked at me. And he flinched. He flinched like I'd punched him or done something awful to him.  He looked like… like… I don't know. I can't even describe it. He reached out, and when I tried to help him he flung himself away, lashing out. He… he said I was tainted. That I was something wrong. I tried to help but it… I just made it worse. He fought back, right up until he didn't. It was like all the fight just went out of him and he said, clear as day, "I don't want to do this. I didn't… I'm sorry. I'm so, _so_ sorry…" and then he broke down again. The nurses dragged him away and I… I left. I didn't come back. I couldn’t. Maybe I should have."

Sam falls silent, unsure of what to do, what to say. His head is still throbbing, headache never really gone. He must have winced or clutched at his head one too many times, because Ellen has topped up his glass of water and passes it back to him. He offers her a weak smile, reaching out to take it.

His fingers just touch the cold glass, not quite getting to the point of gripping and curling around and when the vision hits it slides right through limp hands.

Sam doesn't see the moment the glass smashes into the floor, because he's too busy trying not to curl up in pain or be sick as he's assaulted by flashing pictures-colours-words--

The world around him goes black as the vision takes over.

 

The glass shatters and Jess jumps a mile, spinning to where Sam is clutching his forehead as if in pain, "Sam?" she asks, reaching out but he doesn't appear to hear her, " _Sam_?"

"Sammy?" John's there suddenly, hovering but not knowing what to do. Sam's eyes are closed and he's entirely unaware of them.

Then just as suddenly as it started it stops and Sam's eyes fly open. He gasps for breath, hazel gaze flickering around the room wildly before landing on Jess. His pulse is racing.

"Sam?" she asks, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Sam blinks, clearly disorientated, "Migraine…"

He's a poor liar. Jess isn't the only one that thinks so, "That wasn't a migraine, son," John says.

Sam flinches, "No," he says, voice impassive, "It wasn't…"

"Are you okay?" Jo asks from down the bar, staring with wide eyes.

Sam frowns at her for a moment, "Dean was here, right?" he asks, "You spoke to him?"

Jo shrugs, "Yeah, briefly. He turned up with Jess for about an hour or so then vanished…" she pauses, "Hang on… how did you know I talked to him?"

"I saw it," Sam swallows, and Jess' throat is suddenly dry, "I… I've been having dreams lately. Dreams that come true."

The only think that is more surprising than that announcement is that John doesn't look the least bit surprised.

"I saw Dean," Sam swallows, "I saw Dean in a graveyard with the Colt. And I saw…"

"A Hells' Gate," Jess finishes for him, "I… that was why I left him. Or why he left me."

"He's going to open it," Sam says, horror consuming him, "Dean's going to open up a gateway to Hell."

 

"Naomi _please_ …"

"Why should I, Michael? You're a tool. You're daddy's blunt little instrument," her voice is soft, crooning. The room is all sterile white and metal and sharp lines, sharp cuts of grace and feathers of steel and cyanine. "You have your orders, brother. You have to follow them. You're not a person, Michael. You're a weapon. So do. your. job."

Dean wakes with a start. His heart is loud in his chest, thud-thud-thudding as the blood rushes around, nerve impulses firing and valves slamming closed-closed-closing--

He feels his wings like phantom limbs. He shudders with revulsion, last vestige of the dream making him feel sick.

Or maybe that's just him, graceless and alone.

He glances at the time and it stirs him into moving.

He's been asleep too long. He shouldn't need to sleep but souls need sleep and that's all he is. A human soul run through with tattered grace. Powered up or not, he's not an angel anymore.

It makes no difference, he thinks, the Colt cold in his hands as he examines the weapon. Thirteen bullets once. Thirteen bullets for thirteen demons.

Colt never managed to kill all the demons that walked out of his Hell's Gate, and there's no way any human can go up against the army that's going to blow out when he opens it. Not with only five of the original bullets left, forged in the light of Halley's comet when it passed overhead in 1835.

He could probably deal with them all if he had his wings. But he doesn't and besides… he doesn't need a demon army.

He just needs one very special demon.

"What are you doing?"

He doesn't turn to look at the new arrival. He continues stuffing his meagre belongings into his duffel, making sure he's cleared the room before he heads off. It's going to be a long night after all.

"Michael…"

He chances a glance over his shoulder to see where his younger brother sits perched on the bed - except no, Sam is his younger brother, isn't he? Yet Gabriel sits there, looking for the life of him nothing more than a Trickster God, wings hidden, squashed down and grace bundled up and hidden and--

Hidden. Lost. Run away. He's sad and angry and bitter and long-resigned at this point.

"You know what I'm doing," he says.

"I know you're without your grace. I know you're still following the grand plan."

"Then you know nothing," he says.

"Like you are now you'll die. Whose stupid idea was it for you to do this yourself? Yours? Or did Dad say something…?"

Dean slams the drawer closed, turning to face Gabriel fully, "Dad's gone," he snaps, and for a moment it sounds a little too much like 'John's gone' and his memories waver for a fraction of a second, "Dad's gone," he says again, "I'm doing what I have to."

Gabriel's face creases, "What you want to," he says, almost petulantly.

Dean sighs, "Why are you really here, Gabriel?"

"I don't know," his brother shrugs, "Maybe I thought I could change your mind. Maybe I came just to see how much you've changed. I'd say being human has suited you except I don't think it's made a single bit of difference. Maybe I came just to remind myself of why I left in the first place."

Why did you leave, Dean wants to ask, but he doesn't. Everyone leaves eventually, it makes no difference. Sam-John-Gabriel-Jess--

"Did you find an answer?" he asks, but when he looks around the room is empty.

Gabriel is gone.

 

There's a Devils' Gate in Wyoming.

There's a freaking huge Devil's Gate sitting smack bang in the middle of Wyoming. Five train lines are all that separates it from the world.

Ash's computer looks close to overheating with the amount of information he's running through his servers for them. It spews out maps and demon signs and it's not matching up until suddenly it does and then they're barely there long enough to get directions before they're gone.

There's a Devil's Gate in Wyoming.

A door to the pit. To Hell.

"I'm coming," Jess says, "You can't stop me."

"They'll be demons."

"I'm not scared."

"You should be," Sam says, "Hell's real."

The train lines that make up part of the barrier is made of pure iron lain down. Sam can't imagine what it took to build this giant trap, 100 miles around in the middle of Wyoming.

He also can't imagine what it took to rip it up, and considering why they're there, he doesn't really want to.

The Impala is parked someway out from the cemetery and they leave their cars parked there. Sam takes a moment to rest a hand against the metal that was his home for most of his life. He thought he'd left it, he honestly had but now--

He missed his interview, he realises suddenly, for law school. He'd been planning to go, to find Dean and be back in time but he never was. And the interview had just slipped his mind. It was nothing more than a life left behind and Sam…

Jess stood next to him wielding a shotgun like she knew how to use it, John was here, Bobby, Ellen and Dean--

Dean's standing in front of a mausoleum when they get there. His back is to them and he appears to be reading something written there. As Sam gets closer he sees it's not a mausoleum.

It's a door.

And in the centre is a pentagram.

Dean's head turns, just a little, annoyed movement as he eyes them in his periphery, "You shouldn't have come here," he says, voice quiet but carrying in the silence.

"Dean," John says, "Put down the Colt and step away from the door."

"How about not?"

"We just want to talk," Sam blurts out before John can mess things up further, "Please, Dean. We've been looking for you everywhere can't we just talk? Please?"

His brother sighs, shoulders slumping slightly, "Chasing me is a waste of your time and mine," he says, turning to actually face Sam. He looks… Sam wants to say he looks well but he doesn't. He's thin and pale. He looks like he's been running on no sleep and his eyes--

His eyes are still green. But there is yellow in the background, the wrong-side of gold.

"Then stop running," Sam says, "It's not going to work, believe me, I tried."

Dean shrugs, "Who is running, Sam?" he gestures around at the empty cemetery, old gravestones choked with weeds and dust. "Bit public though, for a family catch-up," his gaze flickers over Ellen, Bobby and John, then to Jess and finally to Sam. "Go on," he says, "Say what you have to say."

Sam opens his mouth, an apology on the tip of his tongue. He actually gets out the "I'm sorry," and he sees something in Dean's gaze soften but then John's speaking.

"Get out of my son."

His gun is pointing unwaveringly at Dean and while Sam would like to believe he wouldn't shoot, he knows his father too well. And Dean's eyes - hazel for a long second - twist and flare up gold. "Sorry," Dean drawls, "That is not how it works."

"Get out--" John says, and Sam steps forwards, interrupting.

"I'm psychic," is not what he means to say but it comes out, "At least, I think I am. I have visions that come true and I've seen what you do here so I'm begging you, please, don't do it." Sam might be imagining it but the yellow fades back, just a little, "I've seen what happens. And maybe you have to. Maybe you're like me…"

"I'm not," Dean says, shaking his head, and Sam blinks at the phrasing because it sounds like his brother, "I'm not like you, Sam. I'm something else."

"There are hunters hunting you," Sam says, "They think you're a monster. That I'm a monster."

He's waiting for Dean to defend him, to protect his baby brother but all his brother does is shrug, "Maybe they're right," he says, "You and I, Sam, we're born to greater things," Dean's eyes roll skywards, "You'll get a chance to find out. Soon."

"No," John says, "We won't."

And then he pulls the trigger.

 

The gunshot rings out and Dean--

Dean doesn't even flinch. Sam can't tell if it hit him except it had to have hit him, there is no way John would have _missed_ …

Which means it _hit_. Which mean it hit Dean, John just _shot_ Dean shot his _son_ …

It didn't even faze him. His head tilts eerily, like a bird of some sort, "Yeah," he laughs, but there's not humour in it. His lips curl in a smile, teeth bared, "Haven't you heard the rumours? It's end times. The world?” his tone is derisive and uncaring as he steps backwards, “It’s gonna _burn_ ," Sam’s brother says, eyes gold as he turns around and shoves the Colt into the pentagram on the door.

It clicks into place and Sam lurches forwards before realising that's a bad idea and instead goes for Jess. He grabs her and pulls them down  behind a gravestone just as the gates slam open.

Hell pours out. It's fire and ash and black smoke pouring past him. It's heat and ice and sulphur and screams ricocheting around him and Dean--

Sam holds onto Jess, looking up and through the smoke to see his brother--

Dean's standing in the doorway and the demons, the smoke and heat pouring out but they--

They don't touch him. They race around, giving him a metre space between him and them, like he's something they can't touch, like he's _dangerous_ , like they're _scared_ of him.

Dean stares into Hell, and mouth moving but words unheard. He turns, meeting Sam's gaze for a moment.

His eyes are the wrong-side of gold and for a moment, just for a moment with Hell at his back, Sam thinks he sees the shadow of wings, spread against the hell fire.

But then he blinks and it's gone and hell is still pouring out.

"Come on," he grabs Jess, "We need to close the gates!"

"But Dean…"

"Screw Dean," Sam snarls, ducking forwards towards the gates.

It's heat and fire and sulphur. The screaming is louder too. Sam's half expecting his brother to knock him away but Dean just steps aside as Sam throws himself at the door. He hits it hard enough that he thinks he might have dislocated his shoulder. It makes no difference. Jess appears next to him, scrambling to get a good grip. Sam sinks his feet into the dirt and pushes, throwing his full weight on the pressure rushing outwards.

With thuds first John, then Bobby and Ellen join them. It's like trying to stopper up the Pacific Ocean in a bathtub with the weight Sam's trying to close the door against.

Slowly, agonisingly, the gate inches closed.

“ _Come on_!” Sam shouts, throwing himself at it to get it to move faster, quicker…

Another cloud of demons claw their way free. Sam feels sick, forcing the door just that little bit more--just that last bit--

It slams shut with a bang. A grind of cogs and the Colt drops free just as the last demon smoke goes racing past. They did it. They closed the gates but it's already far too late.

"What did you _do_?" John chokes out, "You're not my son. You're not Dean. I thought it was going to be Sam but _you_ …"

Sam gives in then, tiredness saturating his limbs he drops to the ground, back to the gate. His head turns to his brother, wondering if Dean knows what he's done.

But Dean's not even looking at them. He's looking up at the sky above them.

"Your move," Sam thinks he says, but he can't be sure, because he's not looking at his brother, he's staring past. Slumped against the gate Sam gazes past Dean to where a woman stands near the gate to the cemetery. Blonde hair. Pretty. White dress.

John notices her too because he falls silent. Ellen's shaking and Bobby mumbles a curse under his breath, pulling himself to his feet.

Sam stays slumped where he is, something digging into his back uncomfortably.

The woman steps forwards with delicate, light steps. She not interested in them. Of course she isn't. She's staring at Dean who still has his back to her, hasn't seen her but by the stiffening of his shoulders he must know she's there, even if she doesn't choose that moment to speak, "Well this is an absolute treasure," she drawls, hand trailing over a nearby gravestone as she steps towards Dean. "Michael. To what do I owe you the _pleasure_ …" her voice is sin personified.

Dean turns, and there's a silver blade in his hands that Sam hadn't noticed before, twirling and catching in the light. It's at ease in his grip, and Sam knew Dean could throw knives, but not handle a sword with such grace.

"Thanks for the gate," the woman sounds surprised, "You being the one standing here though? That, _that's_ a surprise."

"Should it be?" Dean shrugs, "Considering what we both know is going to happen?"

The woman croons, "Awww," and suddenly she's like a six year old girl, skipping forwards to lay a hand on Dean's chest and Dean-- Dean doesn't move, "Is someone missing their little brother?" the woman purrs in Dean's ear, gaze sliding over his shoulder to where Sam, Bobby, John and Ellen sit slumped, "Or did you find yourself a replacement?" the woman lets out an awed laugh, stepping around Dean and her eyes--

Sam feels a chill run through him because her eyes are white. A bone-chilling white, sliding up in her head and empty hollow misty pits.

Dean moves then, turning and slamming a hand around the woman's throat and shoving her back into a statue, "Keep your demons away from them," he says, voice calm. Calm like a stormy ocean might appear flat on the surface but the currents beneath are lethal.

The woman - no, she's not a woman. She's a demon. Lilith. She laughs, "One's not yours to keep, Michael," Lilith chokes out, "Baby brother's staked a claim. I can _smell_ the taint on him."

"There are other bloodlines," Dean's head tilts, "Azazel's hunted them all down, any one of them could be--"

Lilith is laughing, "But we both know they're just cogs in a wheel. They're _puppets_ , Azazel's toy soldiers. You really think it could be any of them when you're… _you_? Older and younger brother, destined to fight, destined to kill the other," her gleaming white eyes and bared-teeth smile is terrifying, "I can't wait to watch him _kill you_."

They're talking about him, Sam thinks, they're talking about him and yet they're not and it's just so confusing.

He's leaning against something uncomfortable but he doesn't move, barely breathes…

"Demons," John whispers, "It's always _demons_ …" he pulls himself up and the pair standing by the statue turn to look at him, eyes yellow and white.

It's an angel statue, Sam realises with some degree of irony. And below it stand an angel and demon, nose to nose.

"Is he volunteering?" Lilith croons, and with a snarl Dean pulls away from her, "I still can't believe you called," she sounds amazed, "Careful, _sweetie_ , someone might think you were **_desperate_**."

"To talk to you?" Dean curls his lips, "Highlight of my day."

"So," the woman - demon - tilts her head again to them, "Is he volunteering? Are we going to get…" she bites coyly on her lips, fluttering her eyes at Sam's brother, "Intimately acquainted? Because personally?" she leans close, "I don't think you thought that part of the plan through, Mikey."

Dean seems unbothered, "We just need you. Right time. Right place. I built that cage. I can break it just as easily."

"Really?" the woman sounds surprised, "No locks needed? How… convenient."

Dean's lip quirk, "It is, isn't it?" he asks, and eyes the demon up and down, "The first and the last, Lily. That's you."

His words - whatever they mean - get to the woman, because she begins walking, pacing around. Her hand trails patterns in the air, occasionally brushing against Dean, up his shoulders and around before pausing with her palm flat between his shoulder blades. It vaguely occurs to Sam that if his brother had wings they would spread from either side of that point. "Do tell me, Michael, how does it feel to be mortal?"

Dean shrugs, not moving, "I don't know," he twists to flash her a smile over his shoulder, "How about you tell me?"

The demon's eyes roll up in her head, white marble to match her dress. She steps around him and Dean moves to match her. For a moment they are a pair of wolves, circling each other with teeth bared under all the false flirtations. "I must admit, you're more refreshing to work with than Azazel," Lilith shrugs, "Your fallen brethren's all 'daddy this' and 'daddy that' and boasting about his psychic kids. Not that it matters. They're not going to make it in the long run." She pauses to glance over and Sam knows she's looking at him, "Well," she amends, "Most of them won't make it."

"Keep any pets you have away from Sam," Dean says, almost casually but there is weight behind his words.

"Oh, I will," Lilith croons, her fingers tightening into claws in Dean's jacket as she leans closer, "We'll keep him safe and wrap him up and darling little Sammy will be fine. Better off than you I dare say." She looks like a predator, but the way Dean stands, the way his eyes twist gold… it's hard to tell who is in control.  The pair are so close Sam thinks they're about to kiss. Instead Dean tilts his head to one side and she snarls at him.  "I can't believe you did this to yourself," the demon almost - _almost_ \- sounds concerned. Her hand trails in the air over her shoulder, "You've reduced yourself, fallen so, so far… further than he ever did. It's a shame. I had _so_ wanted to see those pretty molten feathers of yours."

Dean… no, not Dean. The cold eyed thing before him is not his brother. There are flashes, but it’s like looking at a distorted mirror, filled with _ice_ and nothingness. Whatever is standing before him is not his brother.

And Sam should stop pretending. Because it's _not_ Dean. It looks like Dean, acts like Dean, even sometimes slips into Dean's speaking patterns but…

It's not.

It’s all Michael now.

He leans back because he's lost his brother. He doesn't know where he went wrong, what he did… but he's lost his brother. The Hell Gate presses into his back, uncomfortable and like a pipe of some sort that--

It's only then Sam realises what it is he's leaning against.

The door and it's lock and in the lock--

The key.

His fingers scramble behind him, closing on the cold barrel of the Colt. The gun that can kill anything.

In front of him Michael twists, moving into her body, "Careful, Lilith. You do remember who taught my brother his tricks, don't you?"

"Please," John speaks up suddenly. His voice is hoarse and choking. The angel and demon look towards him curiously as he stands pleading begging to Dean. To Michael, “Please, take _me_. I just want my son back… Please, God _please_ … I’ll do _anything_ …”

Dean frowns at his father, “God?” he asks, lips curling into a mocking tilt, “God’s _gone_ ,” his voice is bitter, “He left a long, _long_ time ago.”

Behind him Lilith laughs. John looks despairingly over the two of them, and Sam feels the hope that he had been kindling die in his chest.

“I’m not possessed,” Dean continues to John, “I told you that, but you don’t listen. You humans don’t listen to anything,” and his voice is scornful and angry.

“Careful, _sweetie_ ,” Lilith skips forwards to lean against Dean like he's her lover, "You sound _just like him_ when you talk like that.”

And just like that Dean whirls around, attention back to the demon he has been flirting with. “I’m nothing like him.” He sounds far too calm, “But then how would you know? After all?” and his smile is razor sharp, “He fell so long ago.”

Her mouth twists into an angry snarl. “He’ll break free.” She sounds determined. She leans in closer; her hand tightens in Dean’s shirt as she moves as if to kiss him. “And then you will fight. And you will lose. And I will watch him kill you. I hope you find your wings, for your sake. Not that it matters in the long run. Because…" she wraps around him and Dean's head tilts, eyes dancing green-gold-yellow-green, "Lucifer," Lilith says, voice clear as crystal, and maybe it's the fact they've finally said his name, finally admitted what it is they're involve with but Sam can't breathe, "is going to rip you apart. And oh, how I _wish_ I could be there to see that," her smiles is cruel, "I'll see you in the next life, lover."

She moves, stepping away from his brother and that's Sam's chance. He draws the Colt and fires at the white-eyed demon.

Then Dean's there in the way and - he's _not meant to be in the way_ \- and he's lifting his hand and the bullet…

The bullet stops.

And Lilith…

Lilith is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: I originally used Abaddon as the demon Dean flirts around with, but when I rehashed this story for the third time, there was very little reason to pull Abaddon out, not when I already have Lilith and Azazel still rolling around.


	4. the truth (is hard to swallow)

"Where the hell is my son?" John snarls, gun out and raised. Sam's glad he has the Colt in that moment, if only because while he won't shoot his brother with the gun that can kill anything, John _might_ …

The bullet Sam shot at Lilith drops to the ground, useless now. Dean's hand lowers back to his side and he looks at John, and then skirts his gaze across to the others.

"Where's Dean?" John asks, and the desperation is clear to hear, " _Please_ , I just want my son back."

" _Do you_?" Dean's head tilts to one side, curious, "Because I seem to recall you ditched me in a hospital. Huh, Dad?"

John flinches, but the gun doesn't waver.

"Put the gun down," Bobby snaps.

John doesn't listen, "Sam, give me the Colt."

"No," Sam's up on his feet and a good two metres or so away from his father before John can even turn to look at him, "I'm not Dean," Sam shrugs, "And I'm not going to let you kill my brother."

" _Save him_ ," John corrects, "I'm going to _save_ …"

"You're going to _kill him_ ," Sam snaps.

"The Colt won't kill me," Dean says to him, almost like it’s an idle curiosity, “You’re welcome to try but it’s a waste of bullets.”

"Wanna bet?" John snaps.

Jess stands, moving between Sam and John, "Dean," she says, her voice one someone would use to reassure a frightened animal, "How about you just tell the others what you told me? Explain it…"

"Why should I?" Dean snarls, "I've _told_ you. I'm still the same person, but I'm _more_. I'm _so_ much **_more_** and you have _no idea_ what that's like. You're not even _trying_ \--"

He's bitter and angry and defensive. He's blocking them out and running away and for a moment Sam dares hope because _that_? That's all Dean.

"I'm your _brother_!" Sam pleads, "I've been _trying_ but you just keep blocking me out!"

"That's because he's lying!" John snaps, "You’re not Dean. Dean's gone." John snarls, other hand coming up to grip the weapon. "You’re not my son."

"You’re right.” Dean meets their father’s gaze squarely. “I’m not.”

“Dean, stop this,” Sam begs from the floor. “You… you’re sick. You’re ill.”

“But that’s the thing…” Dean glares down at him, “I’m not. I never was but you… none of you even tried to understand. You up and left. Why should I stop now to explain? You don’t want to know. You don’t want to listen. So shoot me.” He looks back to John, spreading his arms out. “Pull the trigger.”

And John does.

Sam hears the shots only afterwards. First he sees John's finger slide on the trigger, then the bullets fire. And this time?

This time Sam sees Dean flinch. It's still just a wince, like John threw something at him, but it's there and he takes the smallest of steps back to maintain his balance.

Bobby's shouting at John. Jess makes a noise, a scream that gets cut off at the start and Dean--

Dean's hand is pressed to his stomach and he's staring down looking almost surprised and his hand--

His hand is stained with blood.

"Well," John snarls, "Looks like you can bleed after all," and he lifts the gun again.

Dean's head rises, eyes flaring yellow and Sam throws out his hand as if he can stop his dad pulling the trigger somehow and--

And the gun is wrenched from John's hands and sent flying across the cemetery.

It could have been Dean. It could have been Sam who did it. He doesn't know who telekinetically flung it across the graveyard and right now he doesn't care. He doesn't even register moving, but then he's there, at Dean's side just as his brother drops heavily to his knees. There is blood on his lips.

"Dean," Sam says, moving to press his hand against the wound, "He shot you," Sam can't believe it, "He actually shot you and you…"

"Don't.…" Dean flinches away from him, expression torn, "Don't touch me."

"But you're hurt, he shot you…"

"It should…" Dean coughs, blood speckling his lips, "It will heal. I'm just… just tired. Low on power…"

"Dean, please…" Sam begs, and then suddenly Jess is there and Jess--

Dean doesn't flinch away from Jess.

She put pressure on the wound, "Are you sure it will heal? Because you have a lot a metal in you at the moment and normal people don't walk away from that many bullet holes."

His brother laughs, "I don't think I fit under normal," he shrugs, "Help me up?"

"I shouldn't," Jess grumbles, "Not after that stunt you just pulled…" but she does so anyway, hooking Dean's arm around her neck and hoisting him up. She almost falls, Dean's weight too much and Sam grabs her to steady her. She smiles weakly at him, "I'm still pissed," she comments idly.

"Of course you are," and he sounds more like Dean second by second.

Jess isn't family, Sam realises suddenly, and Dean doesn't have to put up barriers to keep her out. She slips right under them.

"I opened a Hell Gate," Dean rolls his eyes, "I doubt you or any other hunters out there are very happy."

"Except the demons," Jess shrugs.

"Oh sure, the demons are ecstatic. Not that it matters. I just need Lilith."

"Why her? She seems a bit…"

"She's Adam's first wife, isn't she?"

Dean blinks, as if he had forgotten Sam was there, still hovering as Jess helps him to the car, " _Sure_ ," he drawls, voice suddenly more cautious but still talking, "First corrupted demon. Lucifer was _so_ proud."

"Why do you need Lilith?" Sam asks, but he thinks he might have pushed too far.

Dean's grin is good - oh it’s _very good_ \- but Sam can tell it is fake, "All part of the big plan, Sammy," he says, "But don't worry. No matter what they say you're going to be okay, got that?"

He called him _Sammy_ , Sam thinks, and he's keeping Sam _safe_ but-- "You're working with demons," he says, "You opened a Hell Gate… Dean…"

His brother's grin is slightly more real this time, but it's lopsided and his eyes are a funny mix between gold and hazel, "Apocalypse now," he shrugs, "Should be fun, right?"

 

Dean doesn’t argue when Sam grabs the keys to the Impala. Jess sits in the backseat and Dean sits hunched in the shotgun seat. If Dean closes his eyes he can almost pretend he's going on a hunting trip with them

But if he closes his eyes the whispers come back, rustling pines as the angels sing in a range of tongues that had once driven him near mad. Now they're more like music in the background, and it takes Dean a while to realise why Sam looks so worried when he doesn't make to turn his music on.

Dean wants to laugh, wants to explain that he already has music in his head. No matter how loud he plays his tapes they won't drown out the choir.

He's not sure if the others are following, but they probably are when Dean spots the sign to South Dakota. He shouldn't be staying with them, he's only going to bring danger down on top of them but he can't bring himself to leave them yet.

Besides he's weak. Wounded. He's been running around on minimal food, minimal sleep and still taking the time to burn out the odd demon or vampire. Opening the Hell Gate and keeping up pretences around Lilith took it out of him, and that shows in the blood still sluggishly leaking into the bandage Sam dressed his wound with.

Lilith was right, Dean thinks. He can smell the pit on Sam, smell the blood that once in his system, never really leaves. Smell the taint of the fallen.

He wonders how long it will take before Sam can smell the blood that's turning sour in his veins the longer he spends like this, human and broken.

It hurts.

It shouldn't but it does and Dean hates that, hates that it hurts, hates himself for hurting.

It's just another reminder that he's all too human.

It shouldn't be a bad thing. Being human in itself isn't a bad thing but for him?

For him now at this time it's the worst thing he can think of.

As he is, he is nothing more than a pawn, occasionally having the audacity to dart sideways on a diagonal, but beyond that…?

Nothing. All he could do was take one step forwards.

And once upon a time he… he had been the general. The queen of the board.

He isn’t even a pawn, really, now. He’s the king, hiding behind the queen.

There had been a reason he had sought out Crowley at the crossoroads.

 

The car journey passes much like his stay at the hospital did. The choirs singing, his brain whirring and neurons firing. There's too much for his human mind to cope, and sorting it out does nothing more than leave it in a bigger mess than before. So he runs through what's important, what he has to do…

He's a mess. There's too much of Michael in him, but he can't bring himself to fix that balance. Not now. Not when he's so close. He'd tried being Dean. Being Dean had nearly sent him mad and by the time his eyes had opened with the golden spark of what was left of his grace flaring in his eyes he had wasted five years and it had been so long since he'd been human it was easier that he just wasn't.

They reach South Dakota a good half an hour before the others. Sam's still got the Colt, but Dean doesn't need it now. It's got four bullets in, and maybe Sam can find some big bad demons to kill or something with it. He leaves it with his brother and lets Jess help him out of the car. Bobby Singer's junkyard is just the same as he remembers it. If anything it's slightly more lethal, with a few more piles of sprawling cars, several of which looking like they're about to topple over.

Dean limps alone to the front door. Behind him Jess hangs back, whispering to Sam.

Dean makes it to the doorway before he lurches to a halt, gaze flying upwards to the wooden beam over his head.

Behind him Sam just watches. Waits.

Then with narrowed eyes and slumped shoulders Dean steps across the threshold.

The three of them settle in the study, Dean sinking into the sofa. His shoulders ache and he flexes them, half expecting wings that aren't there to move with them. Wincing he curls up, Jess approaching with a first aid kit, glass of water and a sandwich. "Eat," she says, "And let me check your wound or at least change the bandages…"

Dean tries to push her off, because there's no point. And soon Jess can see the same thing he already knows.

It's healing.

Sam pauses to stare at it, then his gaze flickers upwards to stare at Dean, "So," he says, at this undeniable proof of what Dean has been telling him, "Are unicorns a thing?"

It takes him a while to realise Sam is even talking to him, "What?" he says, blinking at his brother. Sam casts him a glance and then looks away quickly.

"Unicorns," Sam says, "So apparently angels exist so does that mean unicorns exist too?"

Dean's heart skips a beat because does this mean Sam believes him? Does this mean Sam's willing to listen instead of shouting him down? "The stories had to come from somewhere," he shrugs, "I think they're all extinct but… honestly I never really paid much attention. Unicorns were… never really a priority."

Sam's laugh is weak. Slightly forced. Maybe it's progress. Dean can't tell.

He should wait. Explain to John and Bobby all at the same time but he--

He doesn't want to.

"Hell exists," Dean says, voice hoarse, "It always made sense that Heaven did too."

"You didn't believe in Heaven," Sam says with a certainty to his voice, "At least not until you started hearing voices in your head."

Dean laughs, and it's cold, ironic because of course he didn't believe in Heaven. Why should he? Why should he believe in angels and deities of good when evil walks the earth? "What if I told you that God and the devil made a wager?" he quotes, tone mocking, "No interference. Or something like that."

Sam stares at him like he has no idea where he's going. And honestly Dean doesn't know either.

So he goes for the blunt approach, "I'm not built like you," he says, voice blank, "I told Jess… angels don't have souls. They have grace. Pure creation 101. Power, wings, holy light and all that…"

"So that's how you got past my wards," Bobby says from where he's appeared in the doorway. Dean's jaw clicks together and he falls silent, but Bobby makes no move to do anything other than hang up his baseball cap on a peg, "Sort of fallen angel, aren't ya?" Bobby frowns at him, grabbing a bottle of scotch and pouring himself a glass. He offers them some, and only Jess takes him up on it. "What happened to your wings?" Bobby asks.

Dean's eyes close tiredly, "I ripped them out," he says, and he's glad he doesn't have to see Sam, Jess or Bobby's expressions.

"You ripped your wings out," Sam deadpans, "Why?"

Dean blinks, glancing at him, one shoulder shrugging, "I don't know. I don't really remember. All I remember is falling."

Sam runs a hand through his hair and then changes his mind, turning to Bobby and grabbing a glass, pouring himself a drink. Dean doesn't even bother. It's not like he can get drunk any more, no matter how much he wants to. "So you're Michael," Sam says, "That's your real name. Can you… can you separate back into..."

"I'm not like oil and water, Sam," Dean sounds tired. Tired and frustrated, "I can't separate myself back out into the pieces of Dean and Michael. It doesn't work like that. I'm still Dean," he says, because that's what nobody sees. Nobody, that is, except Sam. Although the way his brother is looking at him it's like Dean has stolen his brother away from him, "I've always been Dean," he says, wondering who he's trying to convince, "But I've always been Michael too."

"Have you?" Bobby says sharply, "How do we know you're not still schizophrenic. Hearing voices, multiple personalities…?"

"MPD," Sam ponders this fact, "Is it multiple personalities?"

"Technically that's called DID now," Jess corrects her boyfriend and Sam shoots her a smile full of love that makes a part of Dean want to roll his eyes at it. He doesn't. He barely remembers how.

"I am not dissociating," Dean says, tone dull and withdrawn. "I'm not possessed. I'm just me."

"So why the Hell Gate?" Sam asks, "Why let the demons out? Why let Lilith out?"

Dean shrugs, "Grand plan, Sammy. This is bigger than all of us. I'm just playing my role. You have no idea what's going on, what the demons are planning. I'm just keeping us on a level playing field."

"Are you? Because it seems an awful lot like you're skewing the playing field. Why are you _doing this_?"

"Because it is written," Dean says, like a mantra. A mantra that's been burned into his head, etched in with silver and cyanine and a crooning voice whispering in his ear, "Because it is foretold and so it must come to pass."

"No, screw destiny!" Sam snaps, stepping forwards angrily, "You keep saying you're Dean. And I want to believe you, I do. Nobody else does but… But Dean… Dean wouldn't give up like this. He wouldn't just let some force control his destiny!"

"You can't fight fate," Dean says.

"Have you tried?" Sam challenges, "You have a choice in what you do!"

Dean's face creases into disbelief, "Do we?" he asks, head tilting like a bird. Like an angel. "Free will is an _illusion_ , Sam. Everything we do, every decision you make… it's all leading to one place. No matter what path we decide to take we'll still end up there." His shoulder slump, hands spreading out, head tilting, "You can't fight City Hall."

Sam stills for a moment, frowning, "We _will_ ," he says.

"Yes," Michael frowns, "That's what I said."

"No you didn't," Sam rounds on him, "You're contracting your words again. You didn't… I thought you stopped. When Michael was talking. But you… Dean, you don't have to stick to this plan like it's law. You don't always have to do what dad says!"

Dean stiffens, because he was wrong. Sam doesn’t get it. Sam doesn’t get it at all, "There's no difference between us, Sam," he says, trying to drill it into his head, "He and I are merely two sides of the same coin and it's time you see that."

"You might be my brother," Sam says levelly, "Somewhere in that twisted mess, I know you're my brother but there is so much… _other_ that I can't see it. I want to. I keep trying but you…" he shakes his head, "You're not my brother."

And this, Michael reflects, is why he had been staying away.

 

Sam stares at Dean - no, _Michael_ \- and then tears his gaze away angrily. Dean's gone. He's as good as dead. This angel has stolen his brother away. Taken his place but it's like a pale, weak reflection.

Dean - Michael - hasn't moved from the couch. His eyes are closed and the sandwich Jess brought him is still sitting there when Jess nudges him, "Eat," she tells him, "You're still human, aren't you?"

Dean - Michael - looks tired. He barely looks at the sandwich and so Jess shoves it in his face.

"Eat," she says again, and she doesn't move it until Dean takes it and bites into it. Maybe he's hungrier than he realises, or maybe he's intimidated by Jess' glare because he finishes it in a few quick mouthfuls. Can archangels even be intimidated by humans?

The Colt digs into Sam's back and for a moment he wonders what would happen if he shot Michael in the head right now.

But he'd be shooting a part of Dean as well, and even if it's not Dean… Sam can't do it.

A phone rings, derailing his train of thought. He doesn't recognise the ringtone.

Bobby checks his pocket and then pulls out a box filled with old burners but none of them are ringing. Instead Jess is frowning at Dean who--

For a supposed archangel, watching his brother scramble through his own small collections of cheap phones is a rather disjointing experience. Dean finally grabs the ringing phone just as it dies, chirping cheerily to leave a message.

"I don't understand," a gravelly voice announces, "Why do you want me to leave a message?"

"Castiel?" Dean picks up, gaze all flinty again. "Did you find anything?"

Sam can't hear the reply anymore but whatever the man the other end says has Dean's expression dropping in disappointment.

"Castiel?" Jess hisses at Dean, "Is he another angel? You have angel friends I've never met!"

She's chiding and teasing all in one and Sam feels a stab of jealously that he can't be the one to do that, that he's lost that, that--

Dean bats her away, standing up and only wincing slightly at the movement. He makes a step towards the door, "I--you what, no, why are you looking at flatbread, Castiel…" he vanishes out of the door and Sam hates himself for feeling slightly relieved that he's gone.

"Well that was weird," Jess says, "I didn't know he had other angels on speed-dial."

That makes Sam feels only slightly better.

The fridge clacks open, and Sam turns to see John raiding a beer from it. He already looks partly drunk, lurching slightly as he uncaps it and turns to Sam, "Is he gone?" John asks, voice rough, "You haven't shot him yet?"

"Don't be stupid," Bobby snaps at John. Sam ignores him, and John just makes like he's trying to drown himself with alcohol. Sam's still half-expecting to get a ribbing for not managing to hit Lilith and wasting a bullet but John says nothing. He just stares at the ceiling.

"Where's Ellen?" Sam asks.

"She's staying in town with Jo," Bobby says, "I dropped them off. We're going to get together tomorrow and see how we can go about tracking demons, try and make a dent in that cloud your brother let out. For the 'grand plan' or whatever."

"He thinks he's doing the right thing," Sam says wearily, "Or y'know, Michael does. Because he's an angel. And he's following the Bible. Except he's following Revelations so bad luck, Apocalypse now-ish."

"A couple of hundred demons isn't the apocalypse," John scoffs into his beer, "It's only going to get worse."

Then it should get better, Sam wants to say, isn't that how it goes. But instead something else occurs to him, "Did you know?" he asks.

"If I'd have known do you think I'd have let Dean leave that hospital? Hell, do you think I’d have left him there in the first place?"

"Not about Dean," Sam snaps, "About me. About the visions."

John is silent for a moment, before admitting to what Sam already knows, "Yes, I knew about them," he's staring at Sam now, waiting for Sam to get angry, or punch him or something, but Sam's wasted all his anger already on Dean and Michael and so he just nods numbly. "I know how you got them as well," John tacks on, and Sam finds himself blinking at him.

"You… how?" he asks, "I thought I was born with them."

"Oh no," John shakes his head, swallowing slowly, "The night your mother died… that night the power was fritzing. I was watching a game and I thought it was just the mains but…"

"The supernatural," Sam realises. Behind him Jess' hands are clenched tightly together and Bobby is glancing contemplatively towards his whiskey.

John nods, gaze apologetic which is… odd… for John. "A demon. He was… I didn't know then. I didn't know for a long time, but he was in your nursery. He did something to you and Mary… Mary interrupted him."

"Doing _what_?" Sam presses, staring at John. His dad takes another long sip of drink, "What did he _do to me_ , Dad…?"

"He fed you his blood," John blurts out, "Okay? He fed you his blood and turned you into…" he stops, but Sam still hears the words.

He turned into something that isn't human. He turned you into a monster.

Sam feels very alone suddenly. Dean's part-angel. Mostly angel actually. Jess is the only one who can get anything out of him. And his dad is keeping secrets from him. Big secrets.

"Okay," Sam says, even though it's not, it's far from okay and maybe that's what Dean meant when he said they were born to this. Dean's mostly angel and Sam… Sam apparently is somewhat demon. "Okay…"

" _Sam_ …" Jess says.

He shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together because he doesn't need to deal with this now.

"How long have you known?" he looks up to his father who has put his beer down on the counter. John's watching him now, hand hanging at his side and-- "Dad?" Sam frowns, "Dad, you're bleeding."

"I know," John says, "I'm waiting."

"Dad," Sam repeats because he doesn't think his father heard, "You're _bleeding_ …"

And that's when Dean reappears in the doorway behind Sam, "Hope you don't mind guests," he says to Bobby, and then looks up to Sam and then past Sam to where John leans against the kitchen counter. Dean stiffens, mouth opening to speak and that's when John straightens, revealing a bloodied symbol on the fridge door.

He slams his bleeding palm down on it.

It's like he shot Dean. Actually shot him, with bullets that hurt. A shudder runs through Dean as he falls to his knees, choking. It's like all the air has been punched out of him. His eyes flare yellow and he coughs red blood.

John clicks his tongue, sounding almost disappointed, "That's _it_?" he sneers, moving away from the bloodied handprint on the fridge. He walks in an odd sort of circle towards them, pausing in the archway between the kitchen and the study, "Oh, Michael, I thought you had a little more angel left in you than that," he frowns, at that, like it's an idly curiosity, "Appears I was wrong."

Dean's fingers curl around the edge of the desk, but it's clearly an effort for him to do so. He glares at John--

No, Sam realises. Not John. It hasn't been John since he walked in the room.

"Christo," he says.

Not-John gasps as if the word hurts, but then with a scoff and a shake of his head he blinks, "No, wait, that doesn't work on something like me. Neither does the holy water in the beer," he gestures behind him, "Shame, diluting good beer like that."

"Azazel," Dean chokes out, blood on his lips.

John - not-John grins, and he blinks, eyes flashing yellow. And just like that Sam's flying backwards, back hitting the wall hard. He tries to pull himself forwards but it's useless. Across the room Bobby and Jess are in the same position and Dean…

Dean slumps a little further down the desk, eyes yellow-gold but...

Sam hadn't realised there was still a difference, between Dean's eyes and this demon, _the_ demon that John's been chasing their whole lives. It's only now he sees them together that he realises it even exists.

"Brother," the demon in John - Azazel - drawls, eyeing Dean up and down, "Can I just saw how nice it is to see you down here, slumming it with us all? And look at you and those pretty little eyes of yours. What's the matter, Mikey? Can't get it up?"

Dean snarls but it's wordless and he's still coughing blood. His earlier wound is bleeding again, matting in the t-shirt Dean wears. The demon inside John steps forwards, circling the Devil's Trap he'd scouted out earlier on the ceiling and stopping in front of Dean.

"Get away from him!" Sam snaps, but it goes ignored.

"I'd heard the whispers," Azazel taunts, "Especially after you sent my daughter back to hell, but I didn't really believe them. He's fallen, they said, practically human, running on stolen power and I said 'we can't be talking about the same Michael, here'. Because I remember you being all…" he waves a hand around, crouching besides Dean, "All righteous. Cold. Watching on high. The good son, the obedient, loyal attack dog that got sent out. Personally I always thought you were a bit…" Azazel hums, looking for the word, "I don't know. Ruthless? Inhuman? Cruel. _Monstrous_ …" he laughs, "And they said Lucifer was the monster but what he did doesn't _compare_."

John's hand snakes out, grabbing Dean's chin and forcing him to look up. Gold eyes meet yellow, "Go to hell," Dean snarls.

"Been there," Azazel shrugs, "Done that. Burnt in the lake of fire and all that shit. But hey, don’t distract me, we were talking about you," he glances over his shoulder to where Sam sits, "Did you know they call Michael 'the Flood'?"

"The Flood?" Sam doesn't stop trying to pull away from the telekinetic hold, "You mean like Noah and--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Azazel waves his hands, "The ark, the animals, the whole shin-ding, pretty story, huh? Want to know the real one?"

"Don't," Dean gasps, clawing at the demon's grip but he's powerless against him. It's a far cry from the way he and Lilith had danced around each other only hours earlier.

"You see humanity keeps making mistakes. Too many people. Too much crime. Too much sin. It’s always the same old boat, same mistakes you make over and over and over again. There wasn’t even a cloud in the sky. Just you. Michael.” The demon bares his teeth in a grin. “The Flood. Sodom and Gomorrah. The Plagues of Egypt. Every single time you’re there. His weapon. His angels. I thought you were a warrior but really, Mikey here only has one purpose."

"The Flood," Sam barely breathes. Demons lie, he reminds himself, demons lie but--

Dean's glaring at Azazel, lips pressed tightly together and he… he's not arguing.

"Michael's the one that gets sent when a clean slate is needed," Azazel says, "Why do you think he's here now? It's certainly not because he wants to play happy families."

"Lucifer," Sam manages to get out, "He's going to let Lucifer out of Hell."

"Out of the cage," Azazel nods, "Good boy, Sammy. Lucifer will spread his wings and then, bingo. Prize fight. Michael versus Lucifer. And then? Then the world _burns_ …." the demon in John's body straightens, dragging Dean up by the chin and then tossing him backwards over his shoulder. Dean goes flying, rolling into the middle of the floor. He tries to push himself up but then Azazel is there, hand on his throat, "Why do you think we created you, Sam?" Azazel asks, "I, I like the world as it is. And you, you're our soldier against Heaven."

"He's lying," Dean manages to choke out, and Azazel grinds John's hands down cruelly on his throat. Dean gasps, a horrible coarse thing.

"Shhh, Mikey," John's voice and John's face twist in a way that Sam's never seen before and never wants to see again, "There used to be a time when I couldn't even dream of doing this but hey! It turns out those rumours? Are true. You're a step away from becoming a full out Fallen, graceless like you are. How about a quick visit to the pit to rectify that, huh?" and he's pressing down tighter and tighter and--

There's a flap of wings and suddenly Sam's on his own two feet. The demon in John whirls around to face the new arrival. He’s not much to look at, actually looks kind of like a tax accountant.

A very lethal looking tax accountant with a tan overcoat and one of those strange silver swords Dean sometimes has, sometimes doesn't have. His gaze is focussed on the demon, stepping forwards with deadly intent--

But the demon doesn't stick around. At the first sight of the murderous tax accountant John's head snaps back and black smoke pours out of him. The lights blow and shatter, and Sam flinches as glass crashes down.

When he looks again John's breathing heavily on the ground and the murderous tax accountant is crouched in front of his brother. "Michael," the new arrival says, as Dean sits up, eyes still burning gold like they're not going to stop and throat red, "Michael, are you okay?"

"Fine," Dean sounds hoarse. Like a light wind might knock him over, "Nice timing, Cas…" he coughs, and flinches, and the tax accountant - Cas, that Castiel on the phone - kneels there, just watching, observing Dean for a moment before reaching out a hand. Dean pulls away, but whatever Castiel did had some effect, "Don't waste your grace," Dean mutters, "Not on me."

"Azazel had the upper hand," Castiel observes.

"Yeah," Dean mutters, “Angel-banishing sigil, nearly knocked me out cold," he falls silent, gaze drifting to where Sam stands, unsteady on his legs after the telekinesis.

Words are still running through his mind. Words like Flood and Lucifer and Apocalypse and that’s not even getting started on the _blood_. John looks up from the floor, Jess is curled up on the sofa shivering while Bobby kicks out at a piece of glass.

"Was it true?" is all Sam can think to say, "Was the demon telling the truth?"

Castiel's head does that angelic head tilt and Dean--

Michael won't meet his gaze for a good few seconds and then he does.

For a moment Sam thinks his eyes are green

But then he blinks and no, he was wrong. Dean's _gone_. "He was right," Dean replies, "My eyes are a shade away from that of a fallen angel’s. Haven't you heard them whisper?" his tone grows cruel. Cold. Like a machine, like…

Like an archangel.

Like Michael.

"Haven't you heard them _whisper_?" Dean looks at him, blood on his lips, and hellfire in his eyes, "I'm worse than _he_ ever was. At least Lucifer never pretended he wasn't the devil. But I… I'm trying to human. How pathetic is that? But you know the most pathetic thing?"

Sam doesn't want to know, doesn't want to ask, wants to drop to his knees and pull Dean close but Dean…

His brother leans even further away from him, eyes that yellow-gold and so, so dead, "I thought, just for a moment I'd actually managed to be human," Dean whispers, betrayal in his voice even while his expression is a blank statue, "But I'm not. You and John, you've shown me that. So yes. They call me the Flood. The End. The one who fights Satan and his armies. That's my job. I will see this world will burn to ashes. Humanity will die because at least afterwards… at least afterwards we get our paradise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: the whole 'Michael is the Flood' comes from Dominion. It's a great TV show, and even though it's been cancelled after 2 seasons it's worth a watch.


	5. saturation (the sun burns out)

Dean's gone the next morning.

And this time?

This time the Impala is left parked in the driveway, and Sam's heart breaks a little because he's trying to get his brother back, but he only succeeds in losing a piece more of him each time.

And to make matters worse, John wants to split on them. "We have the Colt," he says, "we knows its name, that means we can finally kill the thing that killed your mother."

But revenge on the demon that killed Mary has always been John's quest, not Sam's. He was just dragged along as his life fell down around him.

He sits on Bobby's porch step, elbows on his knees and staring despondently at the cars heaped about the place. He doesn't know what to do.

Jess drops down beside him. He doesn't know how long it's been, "Bobby's tracked some demon signs down," she says, "He and Ellen are going to check it out. Are you… do you want to go with them?"

Sam doesn't answer her for a long moment. When he does it's to tell her the only thing he knows is absolute in his life at this moment, "I'm going to find Dean."

 

Sam looks so lost, sitting there. Jess stares at him, and he's massive and hulking but he looks small and…

Like he's missing his other half. Had Sam not told her once that Dean was older, she would have thought they were twins with the way they acted.

"I'm going to find Dean," Sam says, still holding onto the hope that it's more Dean than Michael left.

"We _found_ Dean," Jess stresses, "Hell, I spent half a year with him. But he's not just Dean, and Michael? Michael's vying for end times. And at this rate he's getting it."

Sam shakes his head stubbornly, "He must still be in there. He saved you, didn't he? Why would he bother doing that if it's not still Dean?"

Jess scoffs because Sam still can't see it, "He didn't save me for me," she sneers, "She saved me for _you_. Don't you get it, Sam? All this, this is all for you. The demons had some big plan for you but whatever Dean's doing? He's doing their plan for them and he's doing it without you."

“So I’ll talk to him. And stop him, _save him_ …”

"Save him?" Jess asks, "Sam what if there's nothing to save? What if this is who he is now? What then? Are you going to kill him?"

Sam turns to face her, his eyes full of pain, "I have to believe that my brother is still in there somewhere and that I can get him back. I have to because if Dean is gone…" he leaves it hanging, like that's it. Like Dean's his only reason for living, like he doesn't have Jess, Bobby, John, like if Dean's gone then Sam might as well be dead, "He's my brother," Sam says, weakly, but no, no Jess thinks that doesn't even begin to cover it.

"You keep using that term to justify everything you do. But brothers - normal brothers - don't do that sort of thing. You're using it like it means something, but I'm pretty sure you and he mean more to each other than that word suggests."

Sam's eyes narrow, "We're not…"

"I'm not saying…" Jess lets out a frustrated noise, "He might talk to me, but it's still all angel when he does. But you, Sam? You get through to him. I've never seen him more Dean than when he's with you so if anyone can get him back, you can. You and he, you're like different sides of the same coin. I've never seen anything like it and quite honestly, it's scares me, the way you look at each other. It scares me what you'll do for each other, and I've only seen you two together for a few moments."

Sam still looks confused, like he's not sure what she's saying. She barely understands it herself. Maybe Dean knows, or the Michael part of him at least.

"We're going to get him back," Jess settles for, and watches the conviction settle in Sam's eyes. He nods, determined and that?

That's the Sam Winchester she loves.

"Yes," he agrees, "We're going to get him back. And I know just the deity to help us."

 

The church is cold. Empty. It's been empty for a long, long time. Since Azazel spilt blood in the holy place to whisper through a locked door that should have stayed very, firmly closed.

There are candles set out, myrrh and sigils in his blood and everything else Castiel has helped him to gather, it's all ready. It's ready and waiting for the right moment and the right players and the right demon to die at the right time.

It looks for all intents and purposes like a spell to unlock the cage. A spell to undo all of his careful warding, a spell to pick the locks he set up himself, binding it with his own grace to keep sealed.

It's not.

It's less like a lock-pick and more like a hammer. A very big hammer. It's not intended for picking any locks. It's intended for smashing, for rending and tearing and--

They're going to crack the cage.

They're going to break it.

"Is this everything?" Castiel asks, hovering at his shoulder.

Dean rolls his shoulders, "It would be better if I had my grace," he grumbles, "But we'll manage without. I trust you to watch my back."

"Michael…" Cas says, and then pauses, "Or do you prefer Dean?"

He laughs, because he doesn't know, "I answer to both," he says, because he does, "And hey, are you sure you don't want to do anything special on what might be our last night on earth? Tomorrow we light this fuse. With the demons and angels watching this stick of dynamite could well blow up in our face."

Castiel frowns at him for a long while before admitting, "I don't see how this resembles dynamite."

Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair, "It's a metaphor, Cas. And you didn't answer - any plans in case we die tomorrow?"

"I was planning to just wait here," Castiel says, and he says it with such sincerity that Dean realises he's actually telling the truth. He steps closer to the younger angel, reaching out and resting his hand on Castiel's cheek. Cas' grace hums under his hand, making him long for his own.

Cas' grace has the same smooth arsenic and cyanine scars Dean remembers his own bearing, and that's why, Dean realises, that's why they did this.

"We can change," Dean says, "You know that, right?"

Cas' head tilts, "I do believe that's why we did this. Why you did this."

Dean drops his hand, huffing out a weak laugh, "Yeah," he agrees, "Yeah, I guess it is."

"Mic--" Castiel stops, considering, "Dean," he says, "This… this is the right path. We chose this…"

"Yes," Dean says, the words hollow and turning to ash in his mouth because they'll always be that doubt, always be that thought of 'is this really his decision' and he squashes it cruelly down, "Yeah, and there's no way I'm spending my last night on earth waiting in this cold, damp church. I think I saw a mouse scurry past. No, seriously I can’t stay here. Come on. _I_ am going to get you laid."

"I don't really think--"

"Nope, come on, Castiel. You're slumming it with me and the mortals. I may as well give you a full tour of humanity while we're here."

 

"You've got to be kidding," is the first thing Loki says when the summon rings out. He crosses his arms and glares at them, "Really?" he scoffs, " _Really_?"

"We need your help," Sam says. The basement is gloomy but he can still see the annoyance flare in the trickster's eyes as he takes in the summoning circle and the runes that trap the Pagan god.

"Oh you do now do you?" the Trickster's grin is wide, teeth bared in a grin that is more ferocious than anything, "Go on. This is going to be good, I just know it."

"We need you to help us find Dean, Michael, whatever you want to call him."

"Uh _huh_ ," Loki looks like he's going to consider it, "And then what?"

"Then we persuade him to stop the apocalypse?"

" _Persuade_ …" the trickster laughs, "That's a good one, you're going to persuade _Michael_ to go against Daddy's plans? I'm sure even you, Sam, realise how much hope you have of convincing Dean to stop listening to Dad."

"He'll listen to me," Sam says, voice sure.

"Hmmm," Loki hums, "How about… no?" his head tilts onto his shoulder, "I want nothing to do with this. Keep me out of it… now let me out to crawl back to my hidey hole to enjoy some candy and ladies before Michael and Lucifer turn this world into nothing more than scorched earth." He sighs, overly dramatic and put-upon, "I will so miss the kielbasa. Not Odin though, he can go screw himself."

"Wait, hang on," Jess steps forwards, hand on Sam's upper arm, before he can make a move whether to release the sigils binding the pagan god here or not, "You… you _knew_ Dean was Michael. You _knew_. Not just that, but you knew _Michael_ … He's your brother, _right_ , which means you're not even a Pagan and…" she stops, and Sam sees the problem because if Loki isn't an actual pagan god then the summoning and the sigils to keep him trapped…

There's a click and the circle in front of them is empty. "She's good," Loki says from behind them, leaning against one of the pillars in the basement, "I like her. Feisty too, just my type."

Sam whirls around and wonders if he could recreate the symbol Azazel used on Dean. He wonders if he'll need to, "You're an angel," he says, taking a step away from where Loki has pulled a sweet from mid-air and is unwrapping it.

"Bingo," Loki shrugs, "Kind of in witness protection at the moment, hence the whole Pagan God thing." He pops the candy into his mouth, crunching down on it loudly.

"I can stop Dean," Sam presses, "He might be your brother, but he's mine too."

"Oh, I know," Loki rolls his eyes, "That's part of the problem. You guys up and left him after all, and so Mikey fell back on Revelations to guide his way. It's classic," he spreads his hands out, "Give it up, Sammy. Dean's gone. He never really existed in the first place. All that ever existed was Michael. Before. During. After. It's always been Michael."

"It's just a name," Sam snaps, "He spent twenty-years being my brother…"

"Twenty years," Loki whistles, "Wow, that's… no, wait, that's not even a hundredth of his lifetime. You think that's going to have an effect? You think that's going to change things? He wouldn't even listen to me, what makes you think he's going to listen to you?"

"I have to try," Sam says, "I'm not asking you to get involved, just take me to where he is."

"That's adorable," Loki mocks, "The fact you think you mean something to him. He's ancient. He's ice and cold and he's the one who cast Lucifer into hell. You're like ants scurrying around beneath his boots. Once he finds his grace he won't need you anymore. I doubt he'll ever remember you. You know what they call him, in Heaven?"

"The Flood," Sam says, and it's a cold cruel joy at seeing Loki-or-whatever-his-name-really-is blink in surprise, "Azazel paid us a visit," Sam says viciously, "He rubbed it in our faces about how Michael's going to wipe out everything to start over. Almost killed Dean too before Castiel showed up."

Sam wonders what would happen if Dean died while human. Is Dean human enough for Heaven or Hell, or would he go elsewhere? And his grace? Would it die with its owner or would it still be there, a piece of Michael hidden from even its owner.

"Castiel?" Loki's face tightens at the name, "There was an _angel_ with him?"

Jess nods slowly, "Yeah," she says, "Trench coat--"

"It's an overcoat," Sam corrects her.

"There's a difference?"

"Yeah, the cut's slightly different and--"

"Hang on, the angel was _helping_ him?" Loki splutters, " _Working_ _with_ _him_?"

"Yeah," Sam blinks, "Why's that so unusual?"

"Because he's _fallen_!" Loki hisses, straightening from leaning on the beam. He begins to pace, frowning, "Archangel or not, Heaven won't take kindly to the fact he's fallen. They'd want to drag him back, stick him back together, whir him up and point--" he stops suddenly. His gaze is hard. His brown eyes are the same sort of flinty that Dean's get, when there's too much angel, too many eons behind human eyes for Sam to comprehend.

Jess frowns, "But Cas was helping him. They took off together this morning and--"

"You may be right."

Sam blinks, thinking he's misheard, "What?"

"You," Loki fixes Sam with a cold gaze that softens a little as he stares at him, "You might be right. There might be some of Dean left in him after all."

"Does that mean you'll help us?" Sam presses, pushing for an advantage. It's like shoving at an unmoving statue but slowly, slightly, he sees it budge.

The angel standing before them nods his head.

 

Gabriel is scared.

No - he’s not scared. He’s terrified. He’s terrified of a lot of things.

Michael is one of those things. Then again he's always been slightly scared of his big brothers. But this, this is different. He's actually more powerful than Dean at this point. He could crush the fragile human body, boosted on extra power or not. From what he's heard Azazel almost managed to do just that. Hit him with a banishing sigil at the right point and then struck like a snake. Had Castiel not turned up, Dean may very well have been dragged down to the pit. It's a terrifying thought.

And Castiel-- that's just a curiosity. Something he wasn't expecting. He doesn't know the name but that's not a surprise. He didn't know a lot of angels. It's the idea more than anything of an angel associating with Michael the way he is now, so close to Fallen…

There's something Gabriel's missing. Or maybe he's just being wilfully blind.

There had to have been a reason Michael fell after all.

He's human. The faint power of souls flaring like wings Michael doesn't have are nothing compared to the glory of his grace, still noticeably absent. Gabriel doesn't even want to know what Michael did to get that power. No doubt this has all been planned out. Michael is, after all, a military leader. A tactician.

He’s a chess player playing the whole board, including the pawns he’ll lose later. Sure, Michael could hold his own in a fight, even now without grace and wings, but human as he is; he’s been using other people to get things done.

And it’s working. No righteous man has fallen in hell, but somehow the tumblers on the locks are still going to click open.

Lucifer is coming.

And so yes. Michael terrifies him. But there's something that terrifies him more.

He's scared of Dean.

There’s a fragile human sliver that at the moment takes up so much of his brother. A lot was there before, but there is fact and a whole fascinating principle of human culture that has been written onto the angel underneath.

And then there is Sam Winchester. The human brother.

Lucifer’s vessel.

And Gabriel wonders if maybe that’s why Michael had begun to distance himself. Or if it was for other reasons. He still can’t believe the father and brother had just left him behind - no wonder the first thing Michael had done had been to go off on his own.

Michael has a plan and Gabriel is beginning to suspect that it's not the one he's thinking of. He wonders whose plan it really is: Dean or Michael's?

He wonders if there's actually a difference or if he's just kidding himself. They're different names for the same person. The same entity.

That thought terrifies him even more.

 

Michael's a bit of a mystery to Castiel.

Or Dean now rather. Castiel remembers Michael. He remembers expansive grace that stretched on forever. He remembers wings that spread wide, invisibly arching across Heaven. He remembers the fear he had felt once in the archangel's presence, at the raw power contained there.

He remembers Gadreel and Theo and the cages and he remembers a warmth as someone grabbed his hands to lead him out of there.

He remembers the planning. He remembers still staring slightly in awe at the archangel and he remembers the moment he realised that below the surface there was no real difference between them.

He remembers Michael's wings. Molten gold and bronze and copper and burning flames brighter than the sun. It's odd, looking at Dean without them. The way the human walks, the way he moves as if they're still there means there are times he's slightly off-balance. His shoulders move as if trying to flex out muscles that aren't there.

Michael might not have his wings but the warmth that had burnt through them… _That_? That's still there. It's in the warm pulse of Dean's hand as he drags him through the den of inequity. It's in the hazel-green gaze, in the soft smirk of laughter as Castiel stumbles and trips his way out of the screaming girl's room.

"I've never seen that reaction before," his older brother laughs, "What did you do?"

"I told her it wasn't her fault her father ran off. He just hated his job at the post office."

"Oh, Castiel, the things I could tell you about absent fathers," Dean laughs, hand around Castiel's shoulders as they stumble out of there. He's warm, pumping blood and beating heart and he may have fallen, may be human, may not have much angel left in him but--

He's still the same, still the same warmth and soft words that dragged him away from Heaven's corruption.

And they have a plan. Well, Michael has a plan. Had a plan. It's gone through several revisions, several changes and Castiel suspects Dean's actually forgotten a lot of it but he's got the gist of it. They're in the right place, waiting for the right time. There is a flash of silver and Dean nicks the back of his arm with a knife, using the blood as ink as he goes about scrawling out the intricate spell-work.

It takes most of the night. When they're finally done Dean is bloody and tired. Castiel reaches out and heals him without a thought, but Dean still flinches, "I thought I told you I wasn't worth it," he snaps.

Castiel's eyes narrow because won't Dean ever understand, "You're always worth it," he says.

Dean's eyes meet him, what is left of his grace turning them gold but the warmth is still there. Maybe he remembers. Maybe he doesn't. It's hard to tell, but for a moment Castiel thinks he can still see Michael's wings burning and glorious behind Dean.

But then they're gone and maybe… maybe he was imagining it.

"You okay with doing this?" Dean checks, like he still can't believe Castiel is here helping him, "The demons will be here soon. They'll smell the blood. If you want to go, I'll understand."

"I'm with you, Dean," Castiel - Cas, it's shorter, simpler, more truthful, he's not of God, he's just himself and that's all he ever wanted to be. Freedom's dangerous. It's a length of rope that chokes and wraps around his throat like a noose. He's still got metaphorical ligature marks from where he's hung himself before, etched into him with arsenic and cyanine. Michael has them too, somewhere buried deep beneath the burnt bronze and fiery ice.

"You understand the consequences?" Dean asks, and oh, Cas thinks they both know what will happen to them by now. In another dimension his wings shift, flare and then settle, because this is his decision. There is no doubt to it: they will be hunted. They will be chased. They will be dragged back to Heaven.

That's if they're not killed. That's if they make it past the sunrise.

There's the sound of displaced air and Castiel stiffens and turns. He’s expecting demons but what he sees instead is three figures appear behind Dean's shoulder to the one side of the church--

The two humans stumble slightly, looking sick and between them stands a guy half their height. A grim smile rests on his face as he steps forwards, brushing his hands off and twiddling his fingers in a little wave at the pair amongst the candles, "Sorry, was I interrupting a romantic moment?"

That's when Dean’s shoulders stiffen and his head turns, even though his back still faces the new arrivals. His gaze is hard, flinty with gold swirling in the human green in obvious recognition of who stands there.

"Gabriel."

 

"Hey'a bro'," Gabriel drawls, dropping Sam and Jess off with an obnoxious pop. Castiel whirls around, but Michael’s slower, back stiff as if his non-existent wings are flared out defensively, “How are your plans for paradise working out?” Gabriel drawls.

"Gabriel," Michael says again, levelly, turning to face him. His gaze flickers to Jess and Sam, "I thought you weren't interested in what I did. Why the change of heart?"

"Well," Gabriel drawls, "Someone pointed something out and.." he squints. It's hard to make out much, and Michael's still human but Castiel--

And there, yes, it's very obvious. Castiel's had several brushes with making choices he shouldn't. Several encounters with Naomi’s gang from the looks of the scars which means...

"Hang on," Sam frowns, "Gabriel? You're _Gabriel_?"

"Didn't tell him that when you dragged him into this?" Michael rolls his eyes.

" _Dragged_ them… they dragged _me_!" Gabriel is indignant, "Look, just have a chat with them and then see if you're still so gung-ho about letting Luci out of the box then, okay?"

"We've talked," Michael's voice is cold, "It didn't get us anywhere."

"Dean, please," Sam begs, "Just don't do this."

"You don't get it, Sam," Michael shakes his head, "I have to. Once I do this will be over, okay? It will all be over."

"No it won't! It will be Apocalypse central!" Sam snaps but Gabriel--

None of the seals are broken. And the ingredients scattered around, incense burning, sigils scrawled out…

"Uh… Sammy," he says, but Sam's not listening. Gabriel twists, taking in the full extent of the spell-work because this isn't a spell to open the cage. "Uh, so I think you might be wrong about the whole Apocalypse thing," he says, slowly.

Sam's mid-confession of love or something (Gabriel's not really paying attention) but he freezes at that, "What do you mean we're wrong? No Apocalypse?"

"Why yes," a new voice chimes in, weasel-like and they spin around to take in the new arrivals, "That's the problem, unfortunately." The suit is well-tailored, and there's barely a speck of dust on it. The owner is a round, narrow-eyed man with an insincere smile on his face. "Michael. Castiel. We've been looking for you."

Dean steps forwards and the air around his hand twists, hazing until his sword flashes into existence. Gabriel blinks, because Michael doesn't have his grace so _how the hell_ \-- "Zachariah," Dean's voice is level.

Gabriel's still staring at the sword. That shouldn't be possible. Dean shouldn't be able to _do that--_

"Michael," Zachariah actually manages a slight nod of respect, "We have two ways we can do this, boss. Raphael wants you back in Heaven, pronto. I'll even give you a lift since you… seem to need it."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean says, twirling the sword in his hands almost lazily, "You can try, sure, but I think we already know how that is going to work out."

Zachariah sighs, " _’Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day that thou wast created,’_ " he mumbles, "Till iniquity was found in thee. It's time to come back to Heaven, Michael. We'll find your grace, get you back up to fighting shape, and let the demons worry about getting Lucifer out--"

"I'm not going back there," Dean's voice is steel, "You're going to have to drag me back, Zach, because I'm not your attack dog. Not anymore."

Zachariah sighs, gaze scanning the church. He dismisses Gabriel as a pagan god almost straight away, gaze lingering for half a moment on Jess and Castiel before settling on Sam, "I can be persuasive," he says, "How long do you think Sam can function without his lungs?" His head tilts, frowning slightly, "How long do you think you can function without _your_ lungs? You're _human_ , Michael," he laughs, "Not all that intimidating I'm afraid."

"Stay away from my brother!" Sam steps forwards, "I don't know who you are, angels too or something, but I'm sick and tired of people getting in my way. I want to talk to my brother. _Without_ interruptions."

That's about when Gabriel notices Jess' bleeding hand.

 

Jess slams her hand down on the symbol she's meticulously painted in her own blood. The floor is dirty and it's so unhygienic, she thinks, as the light flares and the fat balding dude and his associates are beamed out of there like something from Star Trek.

Gabriel's not around. Maybe he noticed and got out of there in time, or maybe she got him too in the blast. She's gotten Castiel because he's not there. She got Dean too because he's doubled over, coughing up blood again. He looks ill. Sick.

No, no it's worse than that.

Dean looks like he's dying, Jess thinks bluntly.

"Can you _stop it_ with the angel-banishing sigils already?" Dean spits out a mouthful of blood turning to Sam and Jess.

"Can you stop trying to end the world?" Sam snaps back, looking like he's raring for a fight.

"Sam, you shouldn't be here," Dean snaps, "Get out. Before the demons get here."

"Dean, please," Sam crosses the gap between them, sinking down and grabbing onto his brother's shoulder. Dean flinches away but this time Sam doesn't let him, "Dean, don't do this."

"I've got to. I do this and it's over."

"You do this and the world's over."

"No," Dean says, eyes burning brightly, "No, it's isn't."

"You can't open the cage," Sam pleads, " _Dean_ \--"

" _Open_ the cage?" Dean frowns, shaking his head, "Sam, no, I'm not… did you think I would let him take you, no, Sam, don't you see? We're not opening it. How can we? We skipped opening the seals entirely! No, I'm going to kill Lilith, ensuring that nobody can ever open the cage again."

"You... _What_?" Sam frowns and Jess' heart skips a beat because does that mean…

"I'm not _opening_ the cage. I'm _destroying_ it."

"Oh Michael," someone drawls out, "And here I thought we could trust you."

Jess whirls around, just in time for a blast of pure energy and telekinetic force to roll through the church like a hurricane. It sends leaves, dust, soil flying with them. She crashes against a wall, jarring her shoulder. Sam lands next to her, and he's bleeding from where a flying stone has cut him. Dean hits the wall heavily and slumps down, still coughing up blood. There is a clatter and Dean's sword, the angel sword, lands near Sam, glinting in the candle light.

"Really," Lilith drawls from where she's striding into the church, "What's the world come to if I can't even trust an angel?" she sounds scornful. "The backstabbing hurts. Right here," she taps her sternum, "Oh, wait, wrong place." She glides forwards, barely making a sound on the church floor. She's bare footed, still wearing a white dress like she's about to get married or something. The candles flicker violently, but they haven't gone out. Not yet. "This is cute. Very nice. Very romantic. Gonna woo me, bed me and ditch me all in one night, _Michael_ ," she steps forwards to where Dean's trying to push himself up from the ground, eyes gold, "You do know how to treat a girl."

"Lilith," Dean glares, clawing his way back to his feet, "I'm going to _rip you to pieces_."

Sam wipes blood from his mouth, checking on Jess and she lets her gaze drift to where the sword lies on the cold marble. She meets Sam’s gaze and then jerks her head, watching as Sam’s gaze falls on the sword lying near him.

"Like you are now?" Lilith croons, taking a step forwards, totally ignoring Sam and Jess in favour of the fallen angel, "That's _adorable_. Pretty _pretty_ Michael, all fallen and broken and I might just give you to Alastair myself, because then? Then?" she laughs, eyes rolling up white, "Then you can break the first seal yourself. Wouldn't that be ironic? You open the first lock to freeing your brother and by the time he's risen what's left of you will be much like the burnt husk Azazel is."

Sam inches across the floor, fingers reaching towards the silver blade.

"I'll make sure to visit you in the Pit," Lilith says, voice simpering, and she raises a hand, white light beginning to coalesce on her finger tips.

Out of the corner of her eye Jess sees Sam lunge. His fingers close around Dean's sword and then he's on his feet, blade light in his hands as he spins it around and sinks it into Lilith's chest. The white light on her palms die and Lilith chokes.

The demon inside the woman flashes burnt amber. Just like Brady did, Jess thinks.

This is how a demon dies.

That’s when the flashing stops.

Lilith looks oddly delighted. She chuckles, tilting her head to look down at the silver sword in her chest, "Oh, that _stings_ ," she says, blinking her eyes - human for the moment - up at Sam with a flutter of her lashes, "Did you really think it would be that easy?"

Sam lurches backwards in surprise, and with a snarl Lilith tears the blade free. Her eyes roll up in her head, milky white and with a twist she spins the sword around in one swift movement and sinks it into Sam.

Sam chokes, hand flying to the blade in his chest. He claws at it, and Lilith just twists it that bit deeper, an almost angelic smile on her inhuman face

"You _precious_ humans," Lilith scoffs, ripping the blade free with a jagged tear. Sam stumbles, his shoulder shaking. A scream mutes itself in Jess' throat before it makes its way out, "So easy to break," Lilith throws up a hand and telekinesis throws Sam backwards. Jess flinches and Lilith spins the angel blade in her hand, still gleaming red with Sam’s and her own blood, "Your pets are so _fragile_ , Michael," she says over her shoulder, not even looking, instead fixing her gaze on Jess, "Before I drag you to Hell, I'm going to let you hear them _scream_ \--"

She's turned her back on Dean, and all Jess can think is how that was a stupid idea. Lilith's turned her back on her enemy.

"Scared?" Lilith taunts, "You should be."

And Jess doesn't know how to tell Lilith that she is scared, but it's not of her. It doesn't matter. Lilith seems to realise anyway, stiffening and whirling around.

Dean’s back is to them, left hand out and fingers curled into the wall. They’re stained with blood from where he’s dragged himself up.

The wall bleeds with it.

Dean’s not looking at them; he’s standing still, shoulders stiff and something's _wrong_ \--

He twists, fingers trailing away from the wall. His eyes are gold and around his shoulders the shadows are hazy, blurring Jess’ vision. As he turns the air around his shoulders sparks into flames. It's like he's on fire but the flames don't touch him. They unfold from his shoulders and Jess can see them now, the flames spreading out into the great hulking shapes of wings.

Dean’s eyes flash - hazel-gold- _blue_ pulsing with something _other_.

"You wanna try that again, Lily?"

Lilith takes a step backwards, white light pulsing around her hand and for the first time since she marched in she looks scared. Frightened.

And Dean has burning wings - Dean has wings - that flare up, burning brighter and then fade so suddenly it leaves Jess blinking black spots from her vision. There's a flash of movement and Lilith's white light flares and then stutters.

And Dean has a sword, not the simple silver one in Lilith's hand, this one's slightly longer, slightly more lethal, slightly more sword-like and it flashes once in a spin and then buries itself into Lilith's chest.

She chokes. Blood sticks to her lips and she lights up from within. Like trying to light a match it flickers, sparking and then dying and she laughs. "Come on," she drawls, "I thought you could do better than that…"

And that's when the second blade sinks in.

And this time?

This time the match catches light.

Dean pulls his swords free, spinning them around and stepping back, watching as Lilith falls. She collapses on the stone tiles, blonde hair spreading out around her. Her blood leaks from her wounds, and she finally stops flashing, just lies there, heart dead.

She's dead. She's dead and Sam--

"Sam!" Jess scrambles up, but somehow Dean's already there, light all around him and--

He doesn't look like he's dying, Jess realises. He looks fine. Alive and well and--

And he has wings, streaming from his back.

 

The blade is white hot in his chest. Some part of Sam wonders if that's because it's an angel sword, but it's a random thought. Pointless, not really important right now and--

The ground is cold and hard beneath him. So cold and so hard and his bones are so heavy and--

"Sam!" Jess shouts in the distance, somewhere far away and suddenly the cold is gone and there is only warmth. A bright light streams above him, hazy and beautiful and Sam blinks as the light reforms itself into Dean.

"Lilith?" Sam manages to gasp out, manages to focus on priorities because worrying about the pointless things like the dust motes hanging in the air are not really relevant at the moment.

"Dead," Dean says, leaning over him, pressing his fingers to the wound like he thinks it might do something.

It doesn't. Just sends small twinges of pain through him and… it's not even that painful, just annoying…

"Sam," Dean's voice is worried suddenly, "Sam? _Sam_!"

Dean slides under him, holding Sam tightly like he's six and not twenty-one. Sam feels the pounding of Dean’s heart and his vision blurs. Green eyes are blue and then green again and a weak chuckle escapes him.

"Sam? Sam! No, Sam, stay with me, come on, stay with me… Gabriel… GABRIEL!"

There's a flutter of wings, and cursing. Sam barely notices it. "Dean," he says, then corrects himself, " _Michael_. Why do you care?"

He stares at his brother through fading vision, because he doesn't understand, can't see it anymore.

"You're my brother," Dean whispers, "I'll always care."

There is a glint of gold at his neck and Sam reached up, fingers catching it and curling around the string cord.

The amulet is warm against his skin, “You kept it,” he murmured, barely audible even to his own ears, “You still… _remember_?” It comes out as a question.

Dean brings one hand around to hold Sam’s, the amulet visible proof of their shared bond. “I’m still Dean,” he tells Sam, “I’m sorry, I forgot, but I’m still Dean. I know you don't believe me and maybe that's because I barely believe myself but… I’m still your brother. I'm your brother I love you don’t die, don’t…” His face isn’t streaked with tears but it’s torn up with sorrow all the same.

“S’okay,” Sam feels his arm grown weak and hand slip down, but Dean’s grip tightens on him. “Always knew you’d remember in the end… Stubborn jerk…” and he knows the sky is pale and light but at this moment for him, it’s bleeding black blood with gold at its centre as Dean continues to beg and plead.

The pain in his chest has ebbed out now. The world around him is cold. He thinks that this is how he would have wanted to die, had he ever a choice, in his brother’s arms under a morning sunrise.

It’s warm against his skin, Dean’s hand wrapped around his own and in the centre a small sun, cupped between them, burning and brilliant, _brilliant_ white. Sam just has the time to think that the light from the amulet is beautiful as it illuminates wings of molten metal unfolding from his brother's back.

Sam's eyes drift closed to the vision of wings.

His heart stills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: Much like actual SPN, I originally used Anna as the angel on Dean's side. She's actually made a cameo already. But Castiel's just so much more of a main character, I switched them. It took a while for me to work out how to bring him in but he's in here now.


	6. like fire underwater

The air tastes like blood and rust when Gabriel gets there. The light spilling through the stain-glass window is red, and all Gabriel can think of is blood.

Lilith lies dead, blood spilling from her corpse like a careless fingerprinting, dragging it onto the floor and around and around and--

The sun streams in, illuminating the dust motes hanging in the air. There's a tang of ozone and he looks around, looks for his brother and--

It's not the sun, he realises. It's Michael. It's his brother in all his glory, wing spread. Each feather is molten metal, pinions of bronze and gold and shimmering copper reaching out invisibly through the world. They burn with all of Michael's fire and Michael--

Michael's leaning over something, grace flaring and beating in time with something that's slowing--

"I'm sorry, Sam, Sam, _don't_ … please…" Dean looks up, meeting Gabriel's gaze, "Gabriel, _please_ ," he says, voice cracking and--

It’s heart wrenching. Michael's found his grace, found his wings but it makes no difference.

The pulsing light stops.

Sam's gone.

"Gabriel--" Michael's eyes burn blue now. Blue with grace and power and the burning ice that makes up the First Archangel. And yes, Gabriel can see the cyanine and arsenic scars now, sheets of pleated stainless steel replacing the odd missing pinion here and there, "Do something, Gabriel--"

"I can't--" Gabriel stutters out, because Sam's beyond healing now.

"Then bring him back!" Dean demands, "You can do it, can't you? You're still connected to Heaven, can't you--"

Gabriel shakes his head silently, numbly…

" _Sam_ \--" Jessica slides into Dean's personal space, reaching out shakily to lay a hand on her boyfriend's still chest, "No, nonono…" Tears stream down her face.

"Was this your plan?" Gabriel asks as Jess pushes Dean away from his brother's body, "Was this what you wanted, Michael? Are you happy?" He spreads out his hands, gesturing around them, "You're got your grace back, Apocalypse now--"

" _Fuck you_ ," Dean straightens, "I don't want an _apocalypse_ ," he sneers the word, "Why do you think I _left_? Why do you think I _hid_? I just want this to be _over_!"

"At what cost?" Gabriel shouts back, " _What cost_ , huh? You tell me because it looks like you're the one who paid it!"

Michael snarls, like a wolf with his fangs bared, feathers straight and threatening. Then just as suddenly the fight drains out of him and his wings relax, drooping down and the hazing in the air dies slightly, "You think I don't know that?" Dean asks, voice ragged and broken, "Do you think I can't _see that?_?"

"Stop _arguing_ ," Jess pleads from the floor, "You're angels, aren't you? Can't you bring him back?"

Gabriel wonders how to tell her that it's not that simple. That Michael's locked out of the gate and there's no way Gabriel can sneak in unnoticed and that Sam's gone.

Sam's dead.

“Can’t you?” Jess repeats, staring first at Michael, then at Gabriel, “Bring him _back_ \--“

“I can’t,” it’s short and sharp and so _so_ broken in his brother’s throat.

“Then what _good are you_?” Jess curls her lips, “What’s ever the _point_ of you?”

And honestly Gabriel doesn't know the answer to that.

 

Dean's hand closes around the amulet at his neck. It's still warm. Still beating in time to his heart. It's been there the whole time, his grace has been right there and he--

He didn't even _see it._ He hadn't even _thought_ \--

He'd been so busy trying to sort out the important things that he forgot what was really important.

He can't cry.

He wants to. He can feel it welling up inside him. His eyes sting and burn but he physically can't. He should be able to. It shouldn't be this difficult to let the salt water fall but he…

He is not built like them.

Dean is an angel. He's been an angel for far, far longer than he's ever been Dean and now, with Sam's body lying on the ground he can't even feel anything.

He's numb. Numb and cold like ice. His grace fills him, icy cold and impersonal and he can't manage to shed a single tear from this frail, weak human body that has been his for the past twenty-seven years.

Jess punches him. And then immediately winces, clutching at her wrist, "What are you?" she asks, "A statue? Don't do this Dean, don't go Michael on me. Sam's dead, I'm not losing you too, okay? Not to an archangel who fell twenty-seven years ago."

"I can't bring him back," Dean admits. It pains him to say it, but he has to explain that much at least to her. She knows it already but it doesn't stop the tears falling, "I'm sorry…" Dean breathes, "I--"

Jess shakes her head and then she's in his arms, sobbing and Dean clenches his eyes closed, wishing with all his grace that he could cry.

 

Death is nothing.

Death is white light and dark light and salt and water and tears at your funeral. Death doesn't happen to you. Death happens to those left behind. It doesn't even hurt. It just… is…

Sam had kind of been expecting Heaven. Or whatever Heaven was. Not this empty space. White-space. Except no… it's black, isn't it? His mind doesn't compute it. It's nothingness. Abstractness. His brain tries to fill in the gaps and fails.

Death is boring.

"Dean?" he calls, "Jess? Gabriel?" he pauses, then corrects himself, "Michael?"

"He's not here."

The voice is everywhere and nowhere. It's in his bones, in his soul, in the room not-room around him. Sam spins around. At least he thinks he does. There's no floor. No gravity. No light, no dark… "Are you Death?" he asks, as if death is a physical being and not just another state of mind.

"Not really," the voice answers, "But you are dead."

"Is this Heaven?" Sam asks, "Or Hell?"

"Not really," the voice replies again, seemingly amused, "Somewhere… in-between."

"And you are?" Sam asks, whirling around as if he might be able to find the owner of the voice.

"Oh Sam," the voice chuckles, "I think you know who I am."

Sam trembles, still turning, still searching but there's nothing. He's nothing, nothingness… does he even have a _form_ here, "What do you _want_?"

"To help," the voice rustles, like whispering pine trees or soft feathers, "You're fading fast, we have to do this quickly. I can help you. I can heal you. I can bring you back and let you see your brother again."

"My brother's gone," Sam says.

"Mine isn't."

"Dean is," Sam says, because he saw the wings. Michael is back now with wings and halo and he won't care about Sam. Not anymore. Sam’s nothing to Heaven’s greatest weapon.

Michael can’t even _feel_ …

"Mine isn't," the voice says again, "I'll get rid of him for you. I'll get rid of Michael and save your brother."

"You can _do that_?" Sam frowns, and it might be his imagination but the nothingness… _pulses_ around him. "You can save Dean?"

The voice hums, "All you need to do is say 'yes'," the voice says.

"And then what?" Sam asks, heart thumping in his chest, "You lie. How can I believe you?"

"Oh, _Sam_ ," the warmth whispers, "I will never lie to you. Not like Dean. Not like Michael. I keep my promises."

Sam closes his eyes, letting himself get lost in the pulsing nothingness and emotions and thoughts and he wonders if this is anything like what it must have felt for Dean when memories long buried began to crack and splinter his brother’s mind.

"Okay," he says before he can change his mind, "Okay, _yes_. Let's do this."

 

Neither of them notice the moment Sam stirs.

Jess is sobbing into Dean's chest, leaving a wet spot on his t-shirt. She doesn't care though. He doesn’t even appear to notice, stiff and unyielding except…

No, he’s not. He’s stiff, yes, but his breath keeps hitching, like he’s trying to keep it level. Like he’s trying to remember how to breath, trying to keep his chest rising and falling and--

"Well I've got to admit, you got Lilith pretty well," Gabriel says, voice quiet, weak and it doesn't really help. Jess' hand hurts from punching Dean but she wants to do it again, because he's still not crying. He's just standing there like someone carved him out of stone. Can't he show a sliver of emotion?

Can he even _do that_ , Jess wonders, can angels **_cry_**?

Dean twists under her, and she cranes her neck over her shoulder, gaze falling on where Lilith’s body lies, blood pooling out and--

There’s a lot of blood. That’s Jess’ first thought.

Her second thought is that it looks like a child’s finger-painting. A really, _really_ fucked up finger-painting.

The blood leaks out and it has been drawn into this spiral on the floor wrapping around and around and…

It’s blurred, clumsy fingers smudging it and ruining the intricacy of the spiral but somehow that makes it even more hypnotising as it circles around a fixed point growing gradually closer and closer and…

It’s the spell, Jess realises, because Lilith is dead and the spell to crack the cage is still there, still waiting for her blood--

Two sides of the spiral meet and there is a wrenching godawful _crack_.

Gabriel stares at Dean with horror, "The cage," he realises.

The floor shudders. It’s like someone stabbed a sword straight through the centre, cracking the marble of the church beneath. The church floor _splinters_ , cracks radiating out and seeping light--

“Move!” Dean shouts, realising it seconds before it happens. He pulls Jess to one side, grabbing Gabriel and tugging them both out of the way. He wraps himself around them, putting his body between them and the cracking cage. The air goes hazy as he shields them with something that is probably his wings, just as the light seeping out **_explodes_**.

Jess flinches down. The light is bright and white and _everywhere_. The floor shatters, marble flying and with it power radiates out. Jess can barely see it, it just registers as light to her. She has no idea what a cage containing the Light-bringer looks like but she guesses this is it.

This is the cage _snapping_.

She closes her eyes tightly. It burns red through closed lids, and she can feel the power in her bones. It shakes something deep inside her and she curls in closer to Dean’s body and the warmth of something curled over them.

“Holy--“ Gabriel is the first to speak. He pushes away from Dean and Jess. Only then does Jess even realise it’s over. Her bones are still vibrating, and she blinks and all she can see is white light against her retina.

Dean uncurls from around her, stepping backwards and nearly face-planting on the floor. Jess sees him drop, manages to grab him and drag him up with a “Woah, Dean? Dean?”

“M’okay,” he says, managing to stabilise himself a bit. Gabriel turns, gaze awed and horrified in one.

“It broke,” Gabriel says, “You actually… you did it…”

He sounds sad too, and it takes Jess a moment to remember that their brother was in there. He might be the Devil, but he was their family.

Jess blinks away black spots, something wet dripping onto her shoulder. She wipes at it, and it’s sticky and warm and--

Her palm is smeared with blood and she turns to look at her shoulder.

She’s not bleeding.

It’s not her blood.

Her gaze flickers to where Dean is still swaying on his feet slightly. He’s fine. Unharmed. Except…

No.

No he’s not.

“Michael,” Gabriel barely breathes, “Michael, your _wings_ …”

Jess can’t see them. They shouldn’t exist to her, but when she’s not looking or between a blink there are shadows in the air. Shadows and molten metal and feathers and--

“They’re _bleeding_.”

“Course they are,” Dean’s voice is gruff, biting back pain, “Just got shredded with a thousand shards of broken glass. It’s okay,” he adds, seeing her expression, “They’ll heal.”

Dean sounds in pain. Sounds ragged and bruised and like he's missing a piece of his heart.

He is, Jess thinks, he's missing Sam.

Behind them there is a gasp and groan from the floor.

Jess freezes because Sam's body is still there. She doesn't want to know what the explosion did to it, but she still turns as there's a hoarse cough. His limbs are twisting as he straightens out, hair falling into his face as he stares at his hands.

Dean hasn’t noticed yet. His eyes are closed like he’s about to fall asleep standing up. Jess would have thought he’d have realised the moment Sam’s heart started beating but…

Sam is staring at his hands. Sam is _alive_. Sam is sitting there as if there wasn't just an explosion of light and grace and metal that didn't even _exist_ in this dimension.

"Sam?" she chokes out.

Dean’s eyes fly open, and they aren’t gold anymore. They’re human green that stare at her for a moment and then twist around, almost overbalancing. Hope burns in his gaze so strongly it makes Jess' heart ache because that look is one of someone who knows hoping doesn't work - it just hurts more in the end - but still he does it. "Sam?" the name sits on his lips like it never left. " _Sammy_ …"

And it is. It’s Sam. It’s Sam sitting and breathing and--

"Oh my _god_ ," Jess steps forwards, seconds away from throwing herself at him when she stops. Her eyes widen and where he sits, Sam isn't looking at them. He's still staring at his hand, fingers curling slowly as he watches the tendons in his arms flex like puppet strings. Jess stops, heart sinking because she's seen that expression before. It's the same one she saw when the strange man with green eyes first burst in to save her life, voice stiff and body unnatural like he wasn't used to having one.

“No,” Gabriel steps backwards, staring at Sam with something close to fear, “Jess, no…”

" _Sam_?"

Dean hasn't seen it yet, still praying, still hoping but…

Jess remembers what the angels said.

God isn't _listening_.

"Sammy?" Dean asks again, and that's when Sam finally looks at them, face oddly blank and now, _now_ Dean realises.

It's not Sam.

"How cute," Sam says, but it's not-Sam, it's something more, something ancient with eyes that are oddly blank, "How disgustingly adorable, Michael, that you love this poor, pathetic excuse of a vessel far more than you ever loved me."

Dean flinches back as if burnt. The words have far more impact that any of Jess' punches. "No,” Dean shakes his head in denial, “It can't be… _you_ … _Sam_ …"

"Sam…" not-Sam curls his tongue over the words, "Always about your darling little Sammy. He's in here. He's…" not-Sam ponders over the words, before with a smile bordering on cruel he announces, "He's mine now."

Dean chokes, silent and frozen.

"He was born to me, after all," Sam's body uncurls, lanky limbs and muscle stiff and moving with an innate fluidity that Sam never possessed, "He was born to _me_ ," the thing inside Sam's body says again with triumph.

"But the cage…"

"You snapped the seals," the being tuts, standing. He rolls his shoulders, still getting used to the body, "You must have been _desperate_ to see me, Michael." Not-Sam observes Dean for a few seconds, "Although not _that_ desperate, I imagine, that you wanted me in _this_ particular vessel." He clicks his tongue, "That's a shame, you had it lying here all ready and empty with a soul that had no idea what he was agreeing to when I told him I could heal him,” the being cocks his head to one side, “So here I am. And oh, how I’m missed you, Michael.”

“What am I?” Gabriel says levelly from where he stands. “Chopped liver?”

Not-Sam’s neck rolls and his lips quirk in a smile, “Oh, you’re a lot of things, little brother. A run away, a coward, a messenger… are you here, I wonder, to announce the end? Blow your trumpet, summon the horsemen… the world is gonna burn burn _burn_ …”

"Who _are_ you?" Jess asks.

Dean answers her, voice ragged as the name is torn from his throat, "Lucifer," he whispers, but it carries a mile, "Lucifer, _please_ … I don't want to do this…"

"That's what you said last time," Not-Sam - Lucifer sneers - and doesn't the expression look wrong on Sam's face, "But you kicked me out of Heaven all the same."

"Please," it's a shock to hear Dean beg, "Take another vessel, anyone but Sam…"

"Oh, brother," Not-Sam takes a few steps, testing out his body, "Why would I do that? Not only does he fit me so well," he pauses to crack Sam's neck from side to side, face cold and calculating in a way Sam's has never been, "but to see that look of pain on your face every time you look at me? That's worth being locked up in the cage for." Lucifer pauses, growing thoughtful, "He's in here you know. He's waiting for me to keep my promise to him."

"Keep your--" Dean steps backwards even as the Devil steps forwards. Dean pushes Jess behind him, behind the still bleeding haze of his wings that Jess can't see, "What did you say to him? How did you get him to say 'yes'?"

Sam's face twists into the sickliest smirk, "This is _good;_ I want you to listen to this. I told Sam I could save his brother. And that I'd kill mine!" he spreads out his hands, "You hear that, Michael? I told him I'd get rid of Michael and save Dean for him. And Sam couldn't wait to say _'yes'_."

Dean chokes like he's been punched, "You're lying," he whispers, "You're…"

"But I'm _not_ ," Lucifer croons, “Why lie when the truth is so much, _much_ better. So draw your swords, brother mine. Never let it be said that the Devil doesn't keep his promises."

The air hazes and Dean pushes Jess a bit further back, looking for all like he's about to materialise his swords again.

That's when Gabriel moves, flashing out of existence and reappearing behind Sam with his own blade in hand and swiping it at Lucifer. Lucifer ducks and strikes back out, stumbling back with a look of surprise, "Gabriel, slumming it with my brother, are you? Picking his side over mine, of _course_ you are."

"I'm not picking sides," Gabriel steps backwards from the blow of Lucifer's sword, "How did you get out the cage?"

"With _ease_ ," Lucifer's sneer twists Sam's face, "I found my vessel. Are you going to kill me?"

"I'm not the one you're supposed to fight," Gabriel says, "I'm just a distraction," and he twists around, sword flashing out, "Michael, get out of here."

Dean takes a step forwards, one of his swords appearing but Gabriel whirls on him.

"Get _OUT_! _GO_!" Gabriel shouts.

Dean's still bleeding, Jess sees, still rocked from the force of the cage, the force of finding his grace, he's off kilter and if he's in no state to fight anyone. He must realise this too because Dean turns, twisting to wrap himself around Jess. For a moment Jess thinks she sees bronze wings flare out.

In that moment before the wings flap down, Dean turns to look at Gabriel, and the pair meet each other's gazes for a single moment.

Then Lucifer's sword pierces Gabriel's chest.

Jess screams. Dean makes a choked noise and there is a flare of light and the smell of something burning and then they're gone.

Flying by angel is disorientating. Jess gets the impression that it takes longer than it feels it does, but to her shocked mind it's instantaneous. One minute she's in the ruined church, the next she's on wooden flooring that is rushing up to meet her. The hand on her wrist is wrenched off and while Jess can still stop herself falling over by grabbing onto something to stabilise her, Dean doesn't manage to do the same. The momentum is still there from where he grabbed her and he keeps moving, rolling as he hits the ground with a crash.

Jess thinks she can see wings lying broken and bleeding.

Then there are shouts and noises of surprise. Jess stays still long enough to ensure she's not going to be sick, then pulls herself up using the chair she'd grabbed onto for support. She recognises the building, wooden floors, dusty and dry but well-worn and cared for. It's the Roadhouse they'd stopped in to chase down a lead on Azazel and ended up finding a demon. The one she'd found Sam in, just in time to save him from a hunter.

Thankfully it's empty now at this time of night.

"Jesus," someone says, and Jess looks around, meeting the gaze of Bobby Singer, "Jess? _Dean_?"

Not as empty as she first thought.

"Dean?" John Winchester appears, with Ellen and Jo right behind him. John's gaze darkens as he sees the slumped form of his son, and drawing a gun her marches towards Dean.

Dean's still conscious. He's on his back, breath heaving and he's not visibly injured.

"Where's Sam?" John demands, levelling the gun at his eldest son. Bobby curses him and Ellen begins to shout warnings but John doesn't listen, "What did you do with Sam?"

"We didn't… Dean didn't do anything!" Jess snaps, " _He_ took him. Lucifer. He's possessing Sam!"

"He _what_? _Who_ what?" John's face is a snarl, and Jess can't take it.

Her feet are unsteady beneath her. Bobby tries to help her up but she shakes him off. She doesn't need to go far. Just the three steps or so it takes her to drop down over where Dean's lying. His eyes are open but hazy. They focus weakly on her as she checks him over.

He's unharmed. Physically. But when she blinks between tears she can see bronze wings bleeding patterns into the woodwork. She wants to reach out and bandage them, but they're not really there, "I can't… I can't touch them, Dean, I'm sorry, tell me what to do."

"Oh god," Jo notices it first, hand flying to her mouth, "I mean… is that blasphemous, I…. Wow, shit, _fuck_ …"

Jess barely notices John stepping back to take something in, she's too busy helping Dean into a sitting position. His eyes close, breathing heavy and tired, "Dean?" she asks.

When he speaks his voice is rough. Broken, "He's dead," he whispers, and for a second Jess thinks he's talking about Sam. But then she remembers.

"Gabriel…"

"He's dead," Dean says, "I got him killed. I got Sam possessed… I…" he chokes, and his whole body shakes. Jess wraps one hand around his shoulders and holds him close, mindful of wings that aren't really there.

They might not be there, but that doesn't stop the fact they're bleeding patterns onto the floor that they can all see.

Jess sits there, holding Dean close because they've lost Gabriel, they've lost Sam, Lucifer is out and they're _losing_.

They're losing.

So she and Dean stay there, clinging to each other with the bloodied imprints on wings on the floor around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: It was really, really hard to not type 'Gabriel' back when he was still 'Loki' to Sam and Jess. I did several times and then hurriedly back-spaced because Sam and Jess didn't know his name was Gabriel.


	7. beyond the bruising

_The walls are white. In the corridors pictures and drawings done mostly by the patients are hung up but in his room there is nothing. Just the stark whiteness of the walls bearing down on him. But it's still not quite right, not quite what he remembers and he closes his eyes and tries not to imagine a room where the walls are light and someone's leaning over his immobile form._

_There's a knock at his door, "How did you sleep?" the nurse, gruff and no-nonsense but the good sort, smiles at him. She enters with a small paper cup of pills and places them on his table along with a glass of water._

_In the back of his head the voices hum, a gentle chorus that never quite leaves him._

_Dean manages a winning smile. He's charming, he knows he's charming but the nurses have more respect for him than that. With a 'tsk' of her tongue the nurse rolls her eyes, "Away with you," she scolds, "Go spend some time with other people and not in this white walled prison you've made yourself."_

_Because that's the truth of it really. This place isn't bad. It's not in Oregon for a start. Not that there's anything wrong with hospitals in Oregon, but Dean would hate to have Nurse Ratched breathing down his neck._

_It's just dull. Outside the cars drift by. Birds sing. Nothing ever changes. It's dull and monotonous and above all there are no distractions. There is nothing to distract him from the voices in his head or the shadows he sees behind people's eyes._

_His skin crawls like something walked over his grave._

_His skin still prickling he reaches for the small paper cup, considering the small tablets for a moment. It's weak, being like this, but he's no use to dad if he's ill._

_He tells himself that every time and every time he takes the damn tablets._

_Today is no different._

_He leaves breakfast untouched. The tablets make him feel ill and besides, he's not hungry when he's sitting around all day. He's losing muscle fast now he's not on his feet and Dean doesn't want to think about how long it's going to take him to get back into hunting._

_Because he has to get back. He has to help Dad and Sam and--_

_His vision swims and he closes his eyes. His head hurts. The voices don't stop, always talking and whispering and singing and--_

_Sam came to visit him. At least, Dean thinks he did. He's not really sure._

_There was something wrong with Sam. Dean knows that with more certainty, he can still smell the taint that clung to Sam's skin of brimstone and Hell and--_

_Dean chokes and lurches forwards. The walls are white and oppressive and too much. In his head someone holds up a metal syringe and the walls gleam and--_

_Don'tdothisIorderyouyoulistentomeNaomidon't **please**_

_"I thought I'd find you here."_

_Dean blinks and it's dark outside. He's lost time. Not unusual. The medication does that to him, but he can't stop taking it. He has to get better…_

_He's not in his room. He's in one of the quieter wings of the hospital, curled up on a window seat that looks out onto the grounds below. He's high up, and he likes it up here, looking down._

_Someone's standing there looking at him with a soft and confused smile on her face, "Can I sit?" she asks._

_Dean blinks, not knowing what to say. She takes his silence as permission and curls up on the sill next to him, tucking her knees to her chest. Her hair is a brilliant red but it falls limply to her shoulders._

_There's a screech. Like nails on a chalkboard and it makes him think of bright white lights and swords. He flinches._

_"Can you hear them?" the girl whispers, "The voices…"_

_She's insane, Dean thinks, and then wants to laugh hysterically because if she's insane then what does that make him?_

_The girl's head tilts to one side, listening. Her finger curls in her hair, wrapping it around and around and around into a tight curl that springs free the moment she lets it go, "I like the singing," the girl says, "It's kind of peaceful. Like being home. But the rest… the rest is scary."_

_Dean's head tilts, eyeing her. He doesn't speak. He hasn't spoken since Sam visited, but then that's nothing new. He has nothing to say. No words, no language, honestly he's not even sure he knows how to speak._

_He wants to apologise, but he's not quite sure to whom._

_There is movement outside and a visitor passes by, here to see one of the other patients. They're in their twenties with short spiky hair and dark jacket. Male. He's heading towards reception but as if sensing them he looks up towards them._

_His face isn't human._

_Maybe it was once, but it isn't now. Pure black eyes and smoke that turns to embers at the periphery and Dean rocks back because it can't be real it isn't real--_

_Thisisn'trealthisisn'trealthisisn't **real**_

_The girl whimpers, gaze fixed on the man, "Can you see it too?" she asks. She's not moving, as if by not moving she might escape notice. She doesn't move until the guy vanishes from sight, and then it's to slump down in relief, "You can, can't you? You're like me."_

_Dean didn't know he was **like** anyone. How can he be?_

_But the girl is still staring at him, "I know you," she breathes, then shakes her head as if confused, "Don't I?"_

_So he looks at her. Looks at the strange girl with the red hair and lost eyes and--_

_She's familiar. Somehow. Inexplicably, he knows her. He doesn't know her name or even when he met her but--_

_His head is jerking into a nod before he even realises what he's doing._

_She's still staring at him with wide eyes. Wide and pleading and--_

_GodnoLuciferI'msosorrysosorryIdidn'twanttodothisbrother_

_"Anna," she says, "My name is Anna."_

_And he opens his mouth to answer, to force the words out of his throat but they lodge there, stick there and he's Michael he's Dean he's he's he's_

_He doesn't know who he is, and so he has no answer to give her._

 

 

The church is cold when Castiel gets there.

His wings twist, angling up so he can phase silently onto the plane of existence. They're a little scorched from the angel-banishing sigil, but he's otherwise unharmed.

He stumbles a little upon landing. He's drained, tired.

It's an odd feeling. A human one.

Castiel isn't human. This is worrying.

He can barely hear Heaven. They've locked him out. It doesn't change much, he's an angel, he's working with Michael, they can't cut him out entirely but it's enough that he notices it.

"It's Castiel, isn't it?"

Cas turns. The church is not as empty as he first thought. Dean and Jess might be gone along with the other angels, but Sam is still here. He stands in the middle of a series of cracks in the marble. They spread out around him like he's at the epicentre of an earthquake.

Mixed in with the marble and dirt is the smattering of sulphur tainted blood.

"It worked," Castiel breathes, staring at the damage, "The cage broke."

Sam's smile is stilted. Castiel's feathers twist uncomfortably. They're on edge, like lightning is crackling over them making them quiff at their fringes. He stops, staring at where Sam is looking at him with a soft, almost gentle smile on his face.

Something is wrong.

"Yes," Sam says, "It worked. The cage broke."

"So it's over," Cas ponders, wondering why Sam is standing here, why Sam is looking at him like that, "The cage broke and Lucifer--"

He stops in realisation, staring at the light pooling in the shadows behind Sam.

And Lucifer stands there, soft smile still on his face. The wings of light behind him flare a little almost in greeting. Castiel stumbles backwards, away from Sam, away from Lucifer and-- "No," he chokes, "No, you weren't meant to… you were supposed to..."

"Supposed to what?" Lucifer's head tilts eerily to one side, "Die? Did you and my brother plot to kill me, little Castiel? You, a no-name seraph thought to conspire against me. Tell me whose plan was it to break the cage? My fallen brother or you?"

Sam's voice stays level throughout. Calm. Steady. Like the sharp edge of a sword and Castiel's waiting for the moment he cuts himself on it. "Michael doesn't want an Apocalypse," Cas says, levelly, "He doesn't want to fight you. That's why we did this."

"No, he doesn't want to fight me, he just wants to kill me," Sam's body steps forwards, relaxed and angry all in one movement, "Well if he wants to kill me he's going to have to do it in person. His shortcut didn't work. Pass that on to him, little messenger. Tell him I'm ready. Tell him this world is going to die, and I'll make him watch before I burn out his wings."

"We'll stop you," Cas says, voice unwavering.

Lucifer just laughs. It's a strange sound coming out of Sam's throat, and his neck tilts at unnatural angles. Behind him his wings of light move with a roll of his shoulder. They look like the sun in the eastern sky. "So faithful," Lucifer mocks, "So loyal. Pretty little Castiel, Michael won't appreciate your loyalty. He'll _use you_ , rip you apart, _bleed you_ until you're in tiny little pieces and then he'll kick you away and accuse you of being broken."

Castiel doesn't say anything. He wants to flee, to spread his wings and fly out of there but Lucifer's gaze is like an anchor wrapped around his throat. "It's my choice to stay with Michael," Castiel says, "I've learnt we can make our own decisions. Michael showed me that. You can make your own choices too, you don't have to fight."

"I'll give you a choice then, little messenger," Lucifer's tone is taunting, "Stay with me. I could use a brave angel like you. There are far too many demons around for my taste. Stay. Serve me. What do you say, Cassy?"

The idea is repellent and Castiel barely manages to avoid flinching, "I fell for _Michael,"_ he emphasises through gritted teeth, "I follow him. Over Heaven, over Hell…"

"Over God?" Lucifer laughs, eyes dancing with a cruel light.

Castiel's expression wavers, and then solidifies stronger and more solid than before, "If God's Plan was indeed the End of Times then yes. Over God."

Lucifer look scornful. Disbelieving, "You have too much faith in my brother," he says, turning angrily away. "Too much faith, little messenger. It's going to get you _killed_."

 

Jo finds Dean Winchester sitting perched on the roof of the Roadhouse.

Jo Harvelle finds the Archangel _Michael_ sitting on the roof of her family's saloon.

"Mom says get off the roof," she says in greeting, even though she's pretty sure Ellen doesn't even know she's acquired a new roof feature. Jo sits in the window, looking across to where the sloping roof meets with another plane. Dean's using it as some sort of nest. Michael is using it and wow, this is messing with Jo's head.

"Do you prefer to be called Dean or Michael?" she asks, and then can't believe she asked that question. Stupid stupid _stupid_ and god, she's acting like a teenager with a crush or something--

He glances at her inscrutably. Can he read her mind, she wonders, oh _god_ , what if he can read her mind and god, she's blaspheming, should she stop that or--

"Seriously," she says, disbelief outweighing her amazement, "Are you planning to make a nest up here or something?"

His shoulders roll in a shrugs, and Jo tries not to think about the bloody imprints still staining the floor of the saloon. The sun streams out behind Dean. The sunset is bleeding, she thinks, it's bleeding and behind Dean it illuminates him like a bloody halo.

For a moment Jo thinks she sees wings, bronze and copper and burnished red with blood and fire but then--

No, she shakes her head, it's just the sunset and her mind playing tricks on her.

"Seriously, dude," Jo says, "It's the Apocalypse and you're up here nesting."

"Praying," Dean corrects.

Jo raises one eyebrow, "You don't strike me as the praying type," she says, and then wants to kick herself because she's talking to an angel.

But the corner of Dean's mouth kicks up, "I'm not," he says, "Destiny is pre-determined."

"That's bullshit," Jo snaps, "We make our own destiny."

Dean doesn't say anything.

"So," Jo leans against the edge of the window, "Get any answers?"

"No," Dean says, "But then again I wasn't expecting any. Not really. Hoping but…" he laughs, bitter and derisive, "Nothing's changed. Praying's overrated."

"Awfully cynical for an angel," Jo says dryly, and then winces, "This is so weird," she mutters, "You don't… you're not particularly angelic."

Dean doesn't seem to take offense. Which is good because he's also the Archangel Michael, Jo reminds herself, but she can't match up this man in front of her with the fluffy-feathered, almost graceful figure in the paintings. That being had looked more like some sort of androgynous ballerina, bare feet pressing down on the demons below. This man in front of him is grounded, rough clothes, Jo can see at least three knives and a gun on him and that's not even counting the pair of swords sheathed on his thighs. He's a hunter, Jo thinks, a fighter, a warrior, a human.

"You're also a mopey bastard," Jo says, because Dean's barely saying anything, "You were kind of mouthy last time you were here."

As expected he doesn't say anything.

"You know what?" Jo says because she can and at least if she dies then she'll be killed by someone good looking, "You're a poor excuse for an angel. Let alone an archangel. It's the Apocalypse, Lucifer walks the earth and you're sitting up here hiding away."

"Oh, I'll fight," Dean's voice is dark, "I don't have a choice. Never did. I'm waiting until it's time."

"And how many people will die before then?" Jo sneers, "No, you… you're giving up. You… I… wow. You're right. Praying sucks. Especially if it's dicks like you people are praying to."

Jo leaves him there, the sun bleeding behind him. She pauses once back in the room, because the tall blonde is watching her. Jess has a sad smile on her face.

"He's a dick," Jo announces.

Jess nods, "Yes," she says, "He is. But he also just lost his brother."

"I thought you said Sam was just possessed."

"I'm not talking about Sam," Jess says, "Let me talk to him."

"Your funeral," Jo shrugs, because she's not interested. She'd been curious because he was a human and an angel but looking at him she doesn't see either.

He's just a broken man.

 

"Have you see the sky?" Jess is the next to bother him, "It looks like it's bleeding."

Dean knows. Dean sees. Dean feels it burning his back.

"You found your grace," Jess says, "Where was it?"

His fingers curl around the bronze amulet hanging over his heart. There is still blood on it from where Sam's hand had closed around it before he his heart stopped.

It's beating now. Lucifer restarted it but Sam--

Sam's soul is quiet, hushed and Dean might never see it again.

"You mean to say your grace was hanging around your neck the whole time?" Jess says is disbelief, "How did you miss that?"

"The amulet…" Dean rolls the bronze head between his fingers, "It's protection. It hid it from my gaze. It was buried within the metal and I… I didn't realise because I didn't think. I should have. I should have realised. Sam--" he chokes out the name and pauses for a good four seconds or so, "Sam gave it to me," he says eventually. "One Christmas, Sam gave it to me. And I've never taken it off. Not even at the hospital. But it… it lost its meaning. It was just there. It wasn't about Sam anymore, it was just an object. But when Lilith… when she stabbed Sam I…" he doesn't know how to explain, "He's my brother. Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

"Okay, Cathy," Jess rolls her eyes, "He's your Heathcliffe, right? That's how it works?"

Dean shakes his head, "No, I mean Sam and I are literally soulmates in the crudest sense of the word. Two brothers, two vessels, Cain and Abel recreated... there's a reason this Apocalypse hinged on Sam and I. There's a reason I had to be born. I just didn't know..." Dean falls silent, and Jess thinks he's done. But instead he continues talking, "I thought I had a choice," he says, slowly, "I thought falling was my decision. My will. But this…" he shakes his head, "It didn't change anything."

"Why did you fall?" Jess asks, slowly.

" _Why_?" Dean frowns like he's not even considered that question before.

"You were the leader of the Heaven. You had infinite power. Why did you… _reduce_ _yourself,_ " those were the words Lilith had used, "Why did you decide to become human?"

An expression flashes across his face and he has considered this, Jess realises. He knows full well why he fell. Why he's here. Why he's human, "Escape," is what he admits to and…

Yeah, Jess can see that.

"You saw what Heaven's like. What it's become. I told you once, we're not built like you are. You… humans exist. You take joy in that, are satisfied with your small, inconsequential little lives and you move on. You're like ants, but you don't care. It doesn't daunt you. Look at what you've done, what you've built. And you keep going."

"Less of the _you_ ," Jess interrupts him, voice leaving no room for arguments, "You're human too, you know that, right?"

Dean's laugh is bitter, "I couldn't handle being human," he scoffs, "It nearly sent me mad."

"Being human didn't send you mad," Jess corrects, "Being an angel did."

"We don't exist," Dean says, gazing at something only he can see, "We just are. We're weapons. We're forces of nature. And right now? Right now we're agents of fate. Apocalypse now and all that. Lucifer and I fight and then when I strike him down, when I kill him once and for all we get paradise on earth, never-mind the civilisations that get in our way."

"So why aren't you fighting?" Jess presses, "I thought you said 'free will was an illusion'?"

Dean's gaze is fathomless when she looks into his eyes. They don't flash gold anymore, and she almost misses that in comparison to the cold blue that sparks in them now, "It is," he says, weakly, "I'm hiding here because I don't want to fight. I don't want to kill Lucifer _or_ Sam," he shrugs helplessly, "But we will. It's inevitable. All the options I see lead to the same place."

"You didn't have to let him out of the cage," Jess argues, "You have a choice…"

Dean shakes his head, "The demons had plans and back-up plans. The angels were vying for it as well. I…" he pauses.

"You," Jess says hesitantly, "You tried to _break_ the cage… the spell…"

His nods is hesitant, "The spell was meant to break the cage. Not just break it open but destroy it and everything inside it. You see? I tried to fight but it made no difference, Lucifer still got out in time."

"That's cynical," Jess frowns, "Even for you."

"I'll fight," Dean promises her.

"Yes," Jess says, "But you're fighting for the wrong reasons." And that's almost more heart-breaking than anything else.

It's only later Jess realises that Dean never answered her question.

He never did explain why he fell.

 

The soul within him stirs. It keeps doing that; it's beginning to get annoying.

Sam forces the soul down into oblivion. He needs the soul to occupy this body, but maybe one day when he's ripped apart Heaven and got himself some extra juice he might do away with the soul, make this body his own.

It fits him so well, Sam's almost grateful to Michael for bringing his vessel right to him. It certainly makes things easier.

Azazel watches him, perched on a fence as Sam paces back and forth trying to locate the best point to start digging. If it's the Apocalypse he might as well do it right. And if that involves the Horsemen then he'll summon them as it is due.

_I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer._

Sam will win. He knows that already but this will just assure it. "None of the others made it out of the pit?" he questions his brother. Azazel's eyes are gleaming yellow and his wings are nothing more than charred skeletons. Most of his grace is long burnt away but what is left flutters under Sam's light.

"Belial crawled out sometime in the seventies," Azazel drawled, "Got himself sent right back down. And I hear the last of your Hell Knights vanished in the sixties."

It makes no difference, Sam thinks, his fallen brethren may long be dead or neck deep in the pit, but eventually they will walk free.

"I found most of your bloodline," Azazel shrugs, "Lots of them, these humans breed like rabbits. If they had kids the right age I marked them. I was going to set them up to try and find the strongest, the best one for you but then I heard whispers. The Hell Gate cracked open without me touching it."

"Michael must have been desperate," Sam clicks his tongue, digging the shovel into a patch of earth. It sinks in easily, "Desperate and broken and human oh how I wish I had seen him."

"I had demons keeping an eye on the Winchester boy," Azazel shrugs, "We thought he'd lost it. Cuckoo," Yellow-eyes flash balefully as he twirls his finger by his ear, "Daddy dumped him and left, he wasn't much threat. Except then something clicked and the next I'm hearing he's not human at all."

"You don't know what happened?" Sam asks, because it's a curiosity. There are so many ways an angel can fall. Between him and Azazel and Michael and Michael's loyal little soldier they're branching out. Scorched grace, locked away, ripped out grace and slowly, slowly falling away from Heaven. The reason is the same, the end result is so, so different.

"No clue," Azazel's host is some sort of janitor and he somehow makes the normal human seem all the more inhuman for it, "But it sent his family into a whirlwind. Brought your vessel right to you, so I'm not complaining. Also…" the fallen angel pauses, teeth bared in a grin, "Daddy's not happy. I might be able to use that."

Sam's primary feathers straighten out with annoyance because Michael is his to taunt and torment but at the same time--

He pictures a scene when Azazel uses Dean Winchester's friends and family to leave him open and vulnerable for Sam to just walk in. It's tempting. It's really, really tempting--

A gun cocks.

Azazel's head tilts, looking at something over Sam's shoulder. Sam stops digging, turns and takes in the man standing there. Dark skin, narrow eyes and--

The soul inside him pulses, memories and emotions and ugh, Sam hates the emotions, he shoves the soul back to sleep. The soul burns him for his trouble.

"I knew there was something rotten about you, Sammy," Walker sneers at him, "Did you think getting Daddy to lock me up was going to stop me getting out and killing you?" He laughs, darkly, "Not chance."

"So what are you going to do?" Sam drawls, leaving the spade stuck in the earth as he turns to face Gordon Walker fully, "Shoot me?"

"Yes," Walker says and pulls the trigger.

It hurts. "Ow," Sam mumbles, gingerly touching the bullet hole in his skull.

It's already healing but _still_ \--

"Rude," he says.

"Want me to take care of this, boss?" Azazel says, watching and waiting and Azazel always was a lazy bastard and--

"No," Sam steps forwards, watching Gordon's eyes go wide with horror, "I want to do this."

Walker pulls the trigger again and with a sigh Sam sends the gun flying, "That was _bracing_ ," he sneers, "What's the matter, couldn't find the Colt?" He pauses to scratch the metal out of where it's embedded itself in his cheek bone. It comes out on a bloody clump and Sam pulls a face, "Humans are disgusting," he mumbles, dropping the bullet, "You sin and you sin and you blame me for every bad thing you do." He rolls his eyes, "Hypocritical."

Gordon pulls out a knife from somewhere, one with odd markings and a bone handle and that's interesting. He swipes out and it scratches him. For a moment. Then he heals it with barely a thought.

Impatient and fed up, Sam grabs Gordon’s hand. He twists it sharply until the knife falls from numb fingers. His fingers tighten around Gordon’s wrist. Sam’s a big guy, still growing into his muscles and height and it's easy to press down until he hears the crack of bone.

“It’s just as well you turned up,” Sam confides in him as if it’s a great secret, voice dropping, “Conquest requires a sacrifice and you…? You’ll do nicely.”

Gordon drops to his knees with a gasp of pain. It's only right, Sam thinks, that humans kneel before him. He is light after all. Light and ice and raw power. He burns brighter than Michael _ever_ did.

“Conquest? You’re going to start the Apocalypse,” Gordon glares, “You actually _are_ the Antichrist," he snarls, face clammy with pain, "If I don't destroy you another hunter will. You can't hide, Sammy."

"The Antichrist?" Sam asks in disbelief, feeling the muscles of his face pull his lips into a smile that is almost patronising in its simplicity, "Oh, _Gordon_ … I'm not the Antichrist."

Walker doesn't drop the gun, "No?" he snorts, "What are you then, Winchester? Because you sure as hell ain't an angel."

Sam shrugs, "Technicalities," he muses, " _Technicalities_ ," he repeats the words, drawing it out, stepping forwards and watching Walker's eyes narrow, watch him grow frustrated and that's when he lashes out with his grace, sending Walker flying backwards, "You see, Walker," Sam meanders over to where Walker is trying to scramble up, knocking him down again with a wave of his hand, "I'm not the Antichrist. And the _Apocalypse_? That’s already started because see here, I’m not the Antichrist. I'm the Devil."

Sam’s lips curls up into a smile. It feels unnatural, his muscles tightening and curling his mouth up. It feels unfamiliar. It feels strange and unfamiliar and it’s not Sam in control.

Sam smiles and Sam smirks and Sam’s screaming inside his head all the while. His muscles move. Blood slicks through his hand and Sam tries to stop. Sam tries to fight, to move, and he pushes with all his might at the walls of light and ice keeping him prison.

Sam’s nothing. Sam’s a lost thought, a memory. A soul pulsing in the Devil’s grip.

Sam’s not in control.

With a smile Lucifer lets the brilliance of his grace unfurl into gleaming white ice wings.

 

Dean is like a shadow. He's there in the corner of John's eyes, lurking around the Roadhouse but not saying anything. Ellen's daughter keeps glaring at him and Jess appears to be avoiding him. Dean's avoiding everyone else so it works out…

But it's not Dean, he reminds himself.

John shakes his head and angrily drinks his whiskey. He watches the thing inside his son and waits. Plans.

It's not Dean. It can't be.

He doesn't look at the floor of the Roadhouse behind him where Dean's - Michael's bloody wing-prints still stain the wood.

On the floor there are still blood stains and John can't deny the shape they spread out in.

He's never gone up against angels before.

But, he thinks, as he drops the yarrow onto the pile of smouldering fumes, he knows someone who has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: Original version had Abaddon instead of Lilith and it ended with Sam dying (Zach killed him as well I think). Anyway I had the end with a dead Sam and had nothing else. I thought I was done but wasn't happy with it, and then finally, years later I realise how to save Sam without being cliché and creating another problem in the same move. I'm amazing.


	8. faintest trace of sound

"It didn't work."

Castiel's voice is still as rough as ever.

"Good to see you're in one piece," Dean says instead of greeting him. He's curled up in a dark corner of the Roadhouse. It's closed. Ellen seems unwilling to let any customers in, not while she's playing host to so many guests. Not when she’s playing host to an archangel.

A _fallen_ archangel. A sorry, _broken_ excuse for an archangel.

"Dean," Castiel sounds frustrated and near the end of his tether. Dean turns to him, taking in the angel. Cas' hair looks even more ruffled than normal and his smoke-and-shadow grey wings flutter nervously, "Lucifer is free. He escaped the cage as it broke. He's possessing Sam. What's the plan?"

Dean turns away, "The same as it has always been. I fight him. I kill him."

"That's not… what's happened to you? We were meant to stop this."

"Yeah," Dean grins sardonically at the wall, "Look how well that turned out."

"We tried," Castiel argues, "We broke the cage. Lucifer barely escaped with his life. He's weak from slipping between the bars. If you strike now…"

Dean's head rolls up, resting against the wall, "No point, Cassy," he sighs, "He'll die in time. I don't have a choice in that."

"My name is Castiel," Cas glares at him, almost bristling. Dean frowns, not knowing what he said to make Castiel so defensive all of a sudden, so angry, "Maybe they're right," Castiel looks slightly murderous, "You and he, you are just alike."

Dean straightens, and in another plane his wings shift just enough to be threatening, but if Castiel notices he doesn't react.

"We had a plan," Cas pleads, "We were going to save the world, Dean…"

He's not even Michael anymore, not to Cas, not to Jess, not even to Jo.

"We were going to pick our own future," Castiel continues, stepping forwards, "We were going to make our own choices…"

"Castiel," Dean leans forwards, "Cas. Free will doesn't exist," he's so, so tired. "I tried. Believe me, I tried. But every time I do I just break something further. Did I really choose to fall? Look at what family I was born into!" he laughs, "Look at what I created! Did I really _choose_ this?"

"Maybe not," Castiel says, angrily, and with a shrug, "And maybe you didn't "choose" to fall," he makes angry quotation marks and Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him they're in the wrong place, "Maybe it was God's plan, maybe it was just another manipulation of Heaven. Maybe it was always pre-determined. But you chose Sam. You chose to save Sam over the apocalypse. You chose to kill Lilith, to condemn Lucifer…"

"It didn't _work_ ," Dean snarls, on his feet, "It was never _going_ to work, don't you _see_?"

"Are you _giving up_?" Castiel tilts his head to one side with a frown"

"Careful, Castiel," Dean's voice is sharp.

Cas flinches slightly at his tone, but doesn't stop, "What, it didn't work out the way you predicted so you're resigning yourself to your fate? Free will didn't work out, so you're going to let it burn? Why don't you just admit you're too scared to face your brother--"

Dean finally gives in to the temptation and punches Castiel in the face.

 

Castiel's back hits the wall with a crash that brings Jess and Bobby running. Dean's hand is around Cas' throat, blade out and the air hazing where his wings are spread.

"Dean!" Jess says, "Woah, calm down a second…"

Dean ignores her. Typical, "Are you calling me a coward, Castiel?" his tone is stilted. Stiff and Jess steps forwards then flinches back when she feels the heat of flames fanning her face from wings she can't see.

"Yes," Castiel manages to get out, despite the hand around his trachea, "I fell for _you_.  I risked everything to help _you_ , the pathetic fallen mess that you were running on stolen souls. And now you tell me it isn't worth it?"

Dean barely blinks at his bite, just tilts his head to one side. His eyes have a blue glow to them that burns in the back of Jess' mind until she has to look away, "Finally showing your teeth?" Dean's dry tone sounds amused, "What's got you so worked up?"

"I spoke with Lucifer."

Dean drops Castiel. The angel in the trench coat slumps to the floor. His nose is bleeding and he looks like Dean did more than throw him into the wall.

Dean straightens, but doesn't move from where he towers over Castiel, "Well," he says, impatiently, "What did he say?"

"Nothing of import."

"What," Dean's voice is like the wrong side of a steel blade, "Did he say?"

"He offered me a place in his army," Castiel says, pulling himself up until he can resolutely glare at Dean. "I refused. I chose you."

Dean meets Castiel's gaze and then curls his lip, "You should have taken his offer," he sneers, stepping away from the other angel, "Probably a hell of a lot better than Heaven's army at this moment."

"I'm not in Heaven's army. They cut me off. I'm in yours, Michael."

"Are you?" Dean doesn't even look at the other angel, "And why on _earth_ do you think that _I_ need _you_?"

"If you mean to imply that I have no hope of standing up to Lucifer, then you're right," Castiel says, "But you helped me before when I was in a bad place. You gave me a way out, a new way to fight. So I've fought and I'm still fighting and now I can return the favour. So let me help you, Michael. You can sit here and give in," Castiel glares at him, feathers bristling, "Or you can try and stop your brother. You can try to save Sam. You have your grace. You might even be able to. But you have to make that decision because nobody else is going to make it for you. Free will exists, Michael, you just need to use it. You just need to fight--"

"I _fought_!" Dean rounds on the angel and Jess flinches. He's light and power and fire and next to her Bobby curses, "I _bled_! I _killed_! And I did it all in Heaven's name. And then they asked me to kill my brother. My little brother, the brightest of us all whose only fault was to dare doubt."

"But you didn't," Castiel still stands resolute. Stubborn. "You didn't kill Lucifer."

Dean wavers, the air around him contorting with the shadows and heat flare from the wings Jess can't see and then gradually settles. "No," he says, "I refused. I refused and do you know what they did, Castiel? They ripped me apart. They ripped my grace into pieces and rebuilt it. Etched in poison to my veins, reprogrammed me like some sort of machine and then sicced me on him like a rabid dog. And I tore him down. I did everything they asked. I turned his armies to ruin. I threw him into Hell and I locked the door. And they patted me on the back and then dragged me back into that room to turn me back into their soldier."

"Are you saying they can programme you?" Jess blurts out in horror, "But you're not a machine! You're…"

"I'm an _angel_ ," Dean sneers, "I'm power and grace and we're soldiers. We're not meant to question. We're not meant to _think_." His head tilts at an angle like it's a ridiculous thought, "Why do you think I ran? Why do you think I hid? I tried to escape but you don't understand they're _inside my **head**_. They've messed with the base code, reprogrammed so much and I… I fell to get away but what if that was what they wanted? I'm here. Lucifer is out. I'm going to fight him. I'm going to kill him. And then we get paradise. It's what they wanted so tell me; did I ever really get away?"

"Then _don't_ fight him…" Jess offers.

"Then he burns the world."

Jess stares at him in horror, because she can't even begin to understand. She can't, but Castiel… Castiel can. Castiel knows what Dean went through but he--

He's not doubting himself. He believes he has a choice while Dean--

Dean's convinced nothing he does is even real. He's nothing more than a machine and--

"You're not a machine," Jess says, because Dean needs to see that, "And you're not an angel."

Dean narrows his eyes at her.

"You're not," Jess says, "You might have been once, but now? You said it yourself, you have a soul. A human soul. You're human, Dean. Human name and human memories and human life. And a human brother. They can drag you back to Heaven, reprogram you, ink instructions into your grace but at the end of the day they can't touch you. They can't change your humanity."

"That's a beautiful concept," Dean's tone is droll, "Are we done here?"

"No," Jess says, "No I'm not done until you listen to me. _Me_. Small, insignificant little me who must have some choice in her small, pathetic little life. I have to believe I _matter_ if only a little bit. I'm _nothing_ , Dean. I'm just one human, but you…" she blinks at him, "You're Sam's brother," she says, "And you _matter_. To him. To me. To Cas. To Bobby. To John. Being human isn't about souls and grace, not really. It's about _people_ , Dean. About the people whose lives you touch and change. Who you save. Who you don't. That? That's humanity. If a tree falls in a forest with nobody around to hear it did it ever make a sound? If someone dies without anyone remembering them did they ever exist? I remember you. And maybe somewhere inside, Sam does to. He's still there, Dean, and you can still save him. But you need to fight and you need to choose."

It's around then that Jess realises who she's talking to. That's it's not just Dean. That there's a being far more powerful and older than she knows beneath that skin.

"She's right," Bobby steps forwards from behind her, backing her up, "And if Sam was here he'd say the same thing."

"Sam isn't here," Dean says, frowning slightly, "But maybe--"

There's a knock at the door.

Bobby frowns, "I thought Ellen closed the saloon."

"Hey," someone calls. Jess recognises the voice. It's one of the hunters who had been at the bar that night when they'd brought in the demon. Bobby strolls forwards, leaving Jess, Castiel and Dean still in the ragged triangle they had been arguing in. Jess watches as Bobby peers through the gap in the blinds, "Bar's closed," he says.

"Singer? That you? I need a hand, I've got demons on my tail, man, Bobby please--"

"The bar's closed, Roy," Bobby says again.

"Hang on," Dean's stiff as a board, eyes slightly glassy and unfocussed, "Let him in."

Bobby frowns at him, "I know your head's screwy, but do you really want a hunter in here?"

"Let him in." This time it isn't a request.

Bobby listens, opening the door. Roy appears in the shadow of the doorway, shoulders slumped in relief, "Oh thank goodness, guys, you would not believe the night I've had--"

A silver sword buries itself in his chest.

 

The sword materialises in the hunter's chest as if by magic.

It's not magic. Dean is just a very good throw.

Roy gasps, skeleton flashing and--

"What the hell?" Bobby flinches back, but Dean's already moving, grabbing his angel blade. It's not his swords, but it kills demons just as well. He spins it once and then passes it to Bobby.

"He was possessed," Dean says, "Keep this. It works on demons and lower class angels as well. You stab me with it and it will just piss me off."

"You ever heard of an exorcism?" Bobby shouts after him.

There is movement and then Castiel is right behind him, "It wouldn't have helped," the angel says, "He was already dead."

"What is it?" then Jess is there behind them, "What's wrong…"

"Something's coming," Dean says, because he can feel it, can smell the sulphur. He glances to Castiel who still stands right behind him. Cas meets his gaze for a moment, then with a slight nods slips past Dean, "I'll look around the out-buildings."

It appears that Cas is telling the truth. He's fighting with Dean now.

"I'll take the garage," he says, turning to Jess, "Stay here and don't leave."

"But--"

"No arguments," Dean shakes his head, "Find Ellen and Jo. Find holy water and salt."

"Demons?" Bobby asks, "Does that mean _Lucifer_ …?"

Dean's head shake is short and sharp and almost disappointed, "He's not here. I'd know."

Lucifer isn't here.

But there’s a fallen angel who is.

 

Dean finds Azazel exactly where he expects to. Lurking in the shadow of the Harvelle's garage. He'd sent Castiel to the storage room on purpose after all.

Azazel is smiling before he's even stepped into view, "Brother," he says.

"Not anymore," Dean says, "Not after what you've become."

"Very similar to you, I dare say," the demon laughs. His eyes flash yellow but this time…

This time Michael's eyes burn with grace.

"So you got a power up," Azazel shrugs. In his hand is a gleaming angel sword, "It makes no difference. You'll die all the same."

"And you will burn. Again." Dean's voice is a perfect deadpan. Azazel is not an angel, not now. He's nothing more than smoke and hellfire. He draws his swords.

"Oh," Azazel's grin is wide, "I won't," he practically purrs as Michael steps forwards, "But you? You will."

And that's when he drops the match.

 

Outside the windows rattle. It’s dark. Too dark. There are shrieks of beings Jess doesn't want to know about there waiting outside in the night.

"Will Dean be okay?" Jo asks with narrowed eyes from where she holds a shotgun. Ash lingers behind her and Ellen is stony faced.

Jess shrugs, and then realises that she's the only one who can answer that. She's the only one who really knows Dean now, now he's got wings and a crooked halo, "He's got enough juice to nuke a small town, he'll be fine."

"Jesus," Bobby knocks his cap off his head to run a hand through greying hair, "I still can't believe he's a freaking angel. That there are angels. And Dean is one… and not just any old angel but _Michael_ , _the_ Michael--"

"I don't think it's as much as Dean is Michael as it is _Michael_ is _Dean_. They're the same. He might have had no wings or grace or memories but it was always Michael. He was… I think he was born as a human, lived as a human for most of his life until he began to remember."

The door creaks suddenly and Jess whirls around. Bobby grabs his shotgun and Jo throws the holy water before they've even seen who it is.

Castiel blinks at the water but otherwise seems as if he doesn't care about the various weapons pointing at him, "That was refreshing," he says, sounding slightly puzzled, "I'm confused; is this a customary greeting during a siege?"

"A siege?" Jess' voice rises several pitches, "Is that what this is?"

"Not for long," Castiel says, "Michael's dealing with the source, but until then you should stay put. There are demons out there, but they don't have hosts. They're nothing more than smoke and hellfire."

"Can they possess us?" Jess blinks, suddenly terrified. Sam is possessed. Brady had been possessed and she remembered how Sam and John had clung to the idea that Dean had been possessed.

Ellen lets out a dark chuckle, "Not if I can help it," she says, putting her glass down on the bar top, "I'm going to grab some anti-possession charms from the back room," she says, turning, "Does the angel need one?"

"A demon cannot inhabit this vessel while I am already occupying it," Castiel says. From where Bobby has found himself a drink he chokes slightly.

"You're _possessing_ some poor bastard?"

"He consented," Castiel says as if that makes it all better.

"That doesn't make it better!"

Castiel looks uncomfortable for a moment, "We can't exist on this plane without causing severe harm to those around us. We don't have physical forms. We're beings of perception on a multidimensional wavelength your minds can’t even begin to understand."

"What about Dean?" Jo asks, "He's _normal_. He's not possessing anyone…"

"Dean was born to that body," Castiel says, "With a soul made from his mind and grace and a human body. It wasn't ideal," the angel adds stiffly, "Bits began to bleed through…"

"The voices," Jo realises, "He wasn't _actually_ insane, was he?"

Cas shook his head, "Angels communicate on a frequency of wavelengths that Dean had begun to tap into unconsciously. Because he didn't know he was doing it he couldn't tune it out. We're not meant for human bodies. If they aren't compatible we'll burn them out."

"Was that what Dean was doing?" Bobby asks, "Burning himself out?"

"Only in the mental sense," Castiel says, "A human brain is only equipped to handle so many memories and knowledge. With memories that span millennia… well… it would be overwhelming. Potentially debilitating."

"Jesus," Bobby says again.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't take the son's name in vain."

"John just locked him up," Bobby whispers, "And I didn't even check to see what was wrong. Yet all this time he was just…" he stops talking.

"It… it wasn't your fault," Castiel looks awkward trying to give comfort, "You didn't know. Nobody knew. Even Dean barely remembered, struggled to find a balance. I belief he used a power boost to buffer most of it, but it bled through all the same."

"A power boost?"

"Souls," Castiel says, as if that explains everything, "He was running on souls. They're not as good as grace but they provided enough energy for him to keep his mind."

"So like substituting double A batteries for a nuclear power station?" Jo asks, but all she gets is a blank look, "Never mind," the college girl rolls her eyes, "You angels are so boring."

" _Souls_?" Jess emphasises, "How the hell-- are those people? Were they conscious? Were they even aware--?"

Castiel shakes his head slowly, "After a time souls break down. They change. They become corrupted, recycled and reborn in an endless life-cycle. To the souls it would have been just like sleeping."

"Reborn?" Jo repeats, "Souls are reborn?" Jess can't quite believe it herself.

"Everything is born again eventually," Castiel says, "Even angels."

"Well," Bobby takes another sip of his stolen drink, ignoring the baleful glare Jo shoots his way at stealing their alcohol, "Wish Dean spent a moment trying to explain."

"He did," Jess winces, "He tried several times, but John wasn't listening. And it's… it's not exactly easy to explain. How would you go about explaining that you suddenly have hundreds of thousands of millennia stuffed into your head? I can't even begin to comprehend it. Dean is like a drop in the ocean compared to Michael and someone threw him in there without explaining how to swim. I can forgive him for drowning a little."

Bobby eyes her over his whiskey, "You seem to have spoken to him a lot about this, huh?"

"I listen," Jess retorts, "And I don't try to shoot him or exorcise him."

The words are harsh, but they're not meant for Bobby. They're meant more for John who--

"Hang on," Jess says in sudden realisation, "Where's John?"

 

The flames flare up heat and pain and Dean skids to a halt, whirling around. His wings spread, phasing through dimensions to carry him out before the circle closes but suddenly Azazel is there. He's smoke and sulphur and he lashes out. Michael dodges the punch but not the sword that follows, cutting across his chest.

"Nu uh," Azazel hisses, "You're not getting out of this cage, little bird," and he stabs the sword forwards. Not at Dean this time, though. Past Dean, to something that shouldn't even by physically present on this plane of existence.

Yet Dean still feels the moment the blade sinks through the flesh of his right wing.

Azazel presses against him, sulphur and hell-taint and he laughs against Dean's ear, "Awww, Wonder Mike, what's the matter? Afraid of a little fire? Not that I care. I rather like the fire."

He pulls away, darting across the gap before the flames close. For a minute the heat wave blocks him from view and in that time Dean rips the sword out of his wing with a muted snarl. He's fury and light and bladed wings but he can't do anything. The flames burn around him, scorching the real form buried beneath his human skin.

"What's the matter?" he snarls, "Afraid to face me in a fair fight, fallen brother mine?"

Azazel's laugh comes from one side. Dean whirls towards it, "Au contraire," the yellow-eyed fallen steps into view, "But I'm not the one you want to fight. Not really. But don't worry. Luci will be here soon and then I'm going to watch him tear those pretty wings off, Michael." The demon bares his teeth in a grin, "I can't _wait_."

Michael's gaze darts around, looking for something, anything he can manipulate. But the area is clear; there are no objects, no drains, and no sand he can move, nothing he can reach out a cautious tendril of grace to manipulate into extinguishing the flames.

"So now you know what it's like," Azazel taunts, "Being trapped. I heard you trapped my daughter in a circle like this. You locked Lucifer away… How does it feel to be the one locked away?" his head tilts to one side mockingly, "Did daddy and Sammy leave you in an insane asylum?"

Dean whirls around like… well… like a caged animal. The irony doesn't escape him.

"So tell me, Michael, how did it feel to be left behind? To be locked away and discarded as the useless son you are?"

There's no escape. Resigning himself for the moment Dean turns to Azazel, back straight and wings flared as far as they can go before they reach the holy fire circle, "Dude," Dean drawls, "You've really got to stop projecting your emotions onto me, it's not healthy."

Yellow-eyes flash, "Where are your armies now, Michael? Where's your back-up, huh? You're alone. Heaven left you too. And in the end, even your dad abandoned you."

Dean shrugs, carelessly, "God left a long time ago."

Azazel's smile is sickly sweet, "Oh, Dean-o, I wasn't talking about God."

And John Winchester steps out of the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: I have nothing against Pestilence, War, Death or Famine but they've already been established in SPN canon as physical embodiments of the horsemen, and I kind of wanted Lucifer doing something Apocalypse related but not the extent of dragging on the plot for another five chapters. After all the rings are useless considering Dean and Cas destroyed the cage, so I went with the interpretation of Conquest being the first horseman to ride in preference to one of the others.


	9. faith still needs a gun

Dean should have known.

He should have expected it really.

He doesn't move. Barely reacts. He's marble, grace carved and hollowed out with wings made of a thousand blades and--

He can't help it. His voice breaks on the word, "Dad?"

John shakes his head, and of course, Dean's being stupid pretending still that he's human. He's not. He's not human.

He's the cuckoo in the nest and all he's managed to do is push his sibling straight into the Devil's hands.

His face grows blank, and his soul twists, wrapping inside grace and fire and ice so he can turn to Azazel with emotionless eyes. He won't let the demon see how this gets to him, "What in Heaven or Hell did you promise John to get him to work with you?" his gaze slides back to John, "He's the hell spawn that killed Mom. You know that right?"

"You don't get to call her that," John levels a finger at him, "Not you. She was never your mother. She was mother to my sons. To Dean and Sammy but not to you. Not to an archangel that fell three decades ago."

"Does it hurt?" Azazel asks, then leans forwards in a conspiring stage whisper, "That your family kicked you out? You have my every sympathy… oh… wait…" Azazel's eyes flash blazing yellow hellfire, "You kicked me out along with the rest of us who dared stand against Heaven. You kicked us down to the pit with Lucifer." He laughs, a cold and cruel thing. Like an ice lake cracking slowly, "Now I might not be the angel of justice, that's your job, but even I can see that you got what you deserved."

Dean's had enough of Azazel, had enough of watching what he says around the Fallen. He turns back to John, trying not to sound desperate, pleading and failing, "I'm still Dean," he says, but he's just wasting air. He still tries though, "I am Dean, I've _always_ been Dean. You can't take that away from me. Like it or not, I _am_ your son."

"My son is dead," John says, meeting his gaze squarely, "You killed him. And now we're going to kill you."

Dean's gaze slides to Azazel again then back to his father, "Is that what he promised you?" he asks, "Did he say he could kill me?" his lips quirk in a lopsided smile, "He can't kill me. He can _try_."

"Kill… I never said kill, brother, as if I could do something like that to you," yellow-eyes flash as the Fallen starts to pace around the circle, "You're right, I can't kill you. But I can cripple you. I can break you, _burn_ you, tear you to pieces and then, _then_?" He smiles, poison dripping out of a perfect flower, "Then Lucifer is going to kill you. I'll watch and cheer from the side lines."

Dean turns back to appealing to John, "Lucifer's possessing Sam. He's got Sam and you're going to _help_ him?"

"No," John shakes his head, "He's going to give Sam back to me once he's killed you. And he's…" he stops, voice hitching, "He's going to give me Mary back…" he says, eyes widening in wonder.

Horror hits Dean like a punch to the gut, "You _can't_ ," he says, "She's dead, you can't… There's a natural order to things..."

"Don't you stand there and tell me that," John sneers, "You're an angel. An archangel. And you took my son from me. Shouldn't I get something back in return?"

Dean's jaw tightens. He should have known it would come to this. It's always the ones he trusts, the ones he doesn't expect it from. He turns away from John. There wasn't really any hope there. Stubbornness is a Winchester family trait and John's deep seated beliefs are another one.

"Do you worst," he says to Azazel, grace burning inside him and turning his eyes blue. The Fallen doesn't flinch, just looks like he's anticipating the challenge.

"With pleasure," he says, a normal angel blade flashing in his hands as he steps forwards, "I'm going to char those pretty molten wings of yours, Mikey. Rip them apart and oh, Heaven's already done that, haven't they?" his grin is more a leer, "Makes my job easier. Tell me, where are yours armies now, Michael? Where are your soldiers? Where is your god?"

Dean doesn't answer. Azazel doesn't appear to care at this point.

"Your god's gone," Azazel croons, "But _mine_? Mine walks the earth. How well are you and your one pet soldier going to fare against the armies of hell, because honestly, Michael, even you can't--"

Azazel stops talking. His body jolts, and Dean sees the red hole appear in the Fallen's head before he hears the shot. The angel chokes, skeleton flashing as what is left of the Fallen's grace burn from the bullet--

Ordinary guns can't kill demons, Dean realises, and only then does he see John. His dad - John - stands with the still smoking barrel of the Colt pointed at the yellow-eyed demon.

Azazel flashes twice more before dropping to his knees. He falls away from the fire and lies still.

Dead.

Dean turns to John. The man's shoulders sink slightly as in relief, "As if I'd ever work with you," John sneers, stepping towards the corpse, "I hope wherever you end up you burn."

His fingers curl around the silver blade of Azazel’s, straightening with the Colt in one hand and the angel blade in another. For a moment he stares down at the body, then he’s moving, turning to Dean and--

"You lied to him," Dean realises, head tilting onto his shoulder before he even realises he's doing it. He corrects himself, not wanting to appear even more alien to his father but it makes no difference. John's already staring at him with sad eyes, both weapons gripped with white knuckles. "You used me as bait.”

"Always so sharp," John says.

Dean swallows, gaze darting to the weapons in John's hands. They won't kill him. But they'll still injure him should John choose to and he…

He doesn't know what John's going to do. Dean steps backwards, away from his human father. He doesn't realise how far he's moved until he feels the heat of the fire pressing against his back. He stops, waiting and watching.

John steps forwards, past the smoking body of Azazel's host until he stands in front of the fire.

"Dad," Dean says, and then stops because this isn't his father. This is Dean's father, his human father and he's not--

He's waiting for John to shake his head and disagree. He's waiting for the moment John Winchester lifts the Colt and shoots him.

He's not expecting John to kick out something Dean can't see, sending sand scattering over the flames.

They die without a sound and Dean is left staring at John.

"Can you save Sam? Can you stop Lucifer?" John asks, voice rough, "D-Dean," he says, and he stutters over the name but it's more the fact he says it in the first place, "Dean," he repeats, "Can you stop it?"

"I--" Dean stares at John, at his father and--

He's looking at him like he always did when he had a new hunt and was giving Dean instructions and this isn't dealing, but it's a step in the right direction and so he nods.

"I can try," he says.

John nods once, sharply and something in Dean loosens, "Then help your brother," he steps to the side, spinning the angel blade around and offering it handle first to Dean.

Outside demons swirl around in smoky forms. Dean steps out of the remnants of the holy fire, drawing his own blade from his side, "Keep the blade," he tells his father, "You're gonna need it."

 

The shutters rattle. The cold charm rests just above her breasts and she presses her hand to it. Jess has never been possessed and all she can think of is Brady. She remembers his change in behaviour but she'd just thought it was drugs. A complete character turnabout and nobody even noticed.

Brady must have been screaming inside, and nobody was listening.

"I can't fight off this many," Castiel says, gravely, "I don't have the power."

"I knew we should have gotten those exorcism tapes made," Ash rolls his eyes.

"And water guns filled with holy water," Jo adds.

"Salted concrete," Jess adds, and Bobby makes a considering face.

"I hope John didn't do anything stupid," Ellen grumbles. Jess does too, but she barely knows the man. She's here for Sam and Dean.

She's feeling like she's losing both of them.

There's no noise, no change in anything but suddenly Castiel is on his feet, staring at the door like a hound. Jess almost expects a wagging tail, but instead the angel moves, surprisingly quickly. He steps forwards and with the sound of flapping wings vanishes.

"Cas? Cas!" Jess is on her feet in alarm, because hang on, why were they staying here when the angel could beam them out at will and--

He's back second later, looking slightly more dishevelled than when he left, "It's okay," he says, "The demons are being handled."

"What do you mean 'handled'?" Bobby demands.

Castiel just squints at him, "I don't see how making air quotation marks makes your sentence anymore valid," he says with great sincerity and confusion at human norms. Like it barely bothers him there are demons outside in swirling black and smoke and--

"Oh my god," Jo's staring at the window. Jess follows her gaze, because there is no longer black seeping under the door.

It's white. White _white_ light with the faintest hint of blue…

"Jess!" Bobby tries to grab her but she slips past, at the door and stepping out into what feels like bright sunshine.

It blinds her for a second. She flinches, shielding her eyes and when she finally turns to look it's only to realise it's not sunlight.

Dean's standing there, white light clinging to his hand and gradually fading down until it blends into the surroundings. Story-high wing shadows flash across the sky behind him, and Jess marvels at their sheer size and power because her mind can barely comprehend their existence on a dimension she can't even see.

There are footsteps behind her as the others appear from the bar. To one side she notices John Winchester standing and watching his son, but Jess turns away from them, attention fixing upon Dean. She steps forwards towards Dean, towards _Michael_ who just burnt out a hoard of demons and he hasn't even broken a sweat.

"Dean?" she asks, voice wavering, "Michael?"

Jess is expecting Michael when he finally turns. She's expecting blue eyes and hazy wings and a distant gaze.

She doesn't get that.

Instead she gets Dean, green eyes and a golden amulet that gleams against his chest, almost humming. He grins at her, head tilting to one side but there's nothing mechanical about the movement, it's a sharp jerk and gesture and-- "So?" Dean asks her, foot tapping impatiently, "You want to rescue Sam or not?"

Jess doesn't know what to say. She splutters. "What… what are you doing?"

His grin is fire and ice and like looking into the sun but it's undeniably Dean looking at her. "Making a choice."

 

"This is the place?"

Dean barely moves to turn to her, just inclines his head slightly, "This is the place."

John's head appears the other side of the Impala, "Lawrence, Kansas, huh?"

Dean shrugs one shoulder lazily, "Ends where it begins. Maybe they thought it was poetic."

"They've got a screwy sense of poetry," Jess says. She looks around for Bobby and Ellen who are in the distance with shotguns filled with salt and iron blades. The gate is painted black, but it's peeling and rusted. A crow sits on it, cawing as if in anticipation of a feast.

In front of Jess lies a graveyard, headstones dotted around the sparse grass. Why does it always end in graveyards, Jess wonders with some despair. Graveyards and churches… why can't there be a hell gate in some place nice. Like Disney Land, or...

"Dean," Castiel appears from nowhere, and Jess just about manages not to jump as the angel steps towards where Dean stands, "Dean, you can't fight him…"

"Castiel," Dean says, then shakes his head, "Cas," he corrects himself, eyes a soft green, "I'm not going to."

Cas tilts his head to one side, "I thought it was predetermined."

Dean shrugs, seemingly uncaring, "It is. And I don't believe in free will. It doesn't work as a concept. It's set up to fail and this… this might well fail too. But I have to try."

"I've set the holy oil," Cas says, "It won't hold for long…"

"Long enough," Dean says, "That's all we need."

"And what if the other angels turn up?" Jess asks, "They might try to stop you."

"Oh," Dean's smile plays over his face as he holds up a small glass vial to the light. Jess can't remember where she's seen it before, can't quite put her finger on it, "We've got a plan for that too."

His fingers curl around the vial even as the sky above them rolls with dark clouds. Lightning flashes and Dean straightens, stepping forwards towards the middle of the cemetery without a trace of hesitation. He knows exactly where he's going.

Jess lingers behind, and next to her she sees doubt flash on John's face as he watches his son walk to the middle of the cemetery. But it's Dean, and not even John can deny that now. She swallows, her throat dry. A flash of movement and she turns to see John offering her a shotgun, "You're part of the family," he says, gruffly, clearing his throat, "And I've got one of those angel swords so…"

Jess takes it. It feels almost like a peace offering.

Dean glances over his shoulder at them as Jess steps up behind him. He looks about to say something, some warning or maybe a thanks, but at that moment the sky flashes with lightning. The storm's breaking, Jess thinks.

“‘As lightning fell from Heaven’," Dean murmurs, "‘I beheld Satan.’” His gaze slides past her, “Lucifer's here."

Jess spins around.

Sam's there. Just standing there, like he's always been there. He's still wearing the clothes he was last in like he's never left.

But there's a tilt to his head, a light behind his eyes and his lips are set in an expression Jess has never, _ever_ seen on Sam's face.

"Michael," Lucifer has only eyes for Dean. Dean steps past John and Jess towards his brother, stopping in front of him.

"Lucifer," he replies evenly, "I didn't think you'd come."

"For you, brother?" Sam's voice sounds almost fond, "This meeting was written, was it not?"

Dean's nod is jerky and for a moment Jess thinks she sees silver flashes of steel in Michael's wings, "It was written," Dean says, "And here we are, meeting. How it goes from here is up to us."

Sam's head tilts to one side, and Lucifer steps forwards, "Did my big brother finally find his voice? Are you speaking up against God's word?" He laughs in seeming disbelief, "That's not like you, Michael."

"What can I say?" Dean sounds tired, lifting his arms in a weak shrug, "It's been a while, Lucifer. People change."

Lucifer steps forwards again, closer now, "But you?" he emphasises, "You were fire and fury and _rage_ , Michael…" he stares, as if trying to see it, "What _happened_ to that? Ugh," his face twists in disgust, "Being human must have damn near killed you." He moves forwards.

Jess holds her breath, because just one more step and then they can evict Lucifer, they can save Sam, they can…

Lucifer lifts up one foot, stepping forwards and then--

He smiles, and stops, "I told you. You've changed. You didn't _really_ think that was going to work, did you, _brother_?" he asks, and steps backwards, shoulders relaxed and at ease even as he makes his way around the circle.

And Jess' heart plummets.

"I must admit," Lucifer shrugs, "I wasn't expecting you **now**. You're early. In a hurry to get this over with? I thought you would have left it longer, waited for the horsemen to ride." He shrugs, "Not that it matters. I've got the one that's important…"

"Horsemen?" Jess breathes in alarm, because she's flicked through Revelations, she knows what the four horsemen of the apocalypse are and--

"Conquest rides!" Sam's hands rise. No, Lucifer' hands rise, arms lifting as if heralding it's arrival, "And with it?" he grins, "My victory. This fight, Michael, this is all just technicalities."

"You haven't won yet," Michael snarls.

"Oh, I soon will," Lucifer promises, head tilting to one side and--

The sky flashes with lightning that rolls, sparking and rearing and twisting until it illuminates wings spread stories-high and a rearing white horse with pure black eyes and--

The clouds roll grey and black and lightning flashes and it takes Jess a second more to realise that they aren't clouds.

They're demons. Hordes of demons, Jess realises, seconds before the clouds break up, crashing straight down towards them.

"Move," she pushes John out of the way, ends up next to Castiel as a smoke and hellfire cloud crashes down where she had been standing seconds earlier. It rears up, forming smoky limbs from shadow with embers for a heart.

She shoots it. It dissipates in the salt cloud and Jess turns to where Dean and Sam stand except…

It's Dean and Sam, but it's Michael and Lucifer, and there is white grace spilling from them until the sky flashes with wing shadows that stretch beyond the horizon.

They are archangels, they are great and powerful and--

Heaven’s nuclear weapons, a voice says in her head.

And she's in the epicentre of the explosion.

 

Lucifer skirts the holy oil with distaste and Dean follows his movements. The sulphur taint and screams of the hell spawn echo around him as the Horseman's army descends.

He has no angels at his back. Just a small rag tag group of humans.

And Dean doesn't care.

"Lucifer," he pleads, "Don't do this. I don't want to fight you."

"Slumming it with humans," Sam's face twists, "I hope you didn't catch anything, Michael."

"Sam," Dean pleads, staring past the burning white grace to where he knows the human soul must be, "Sam, please, you can evict him, you can regain control, Sam--"

Sam steps forwards, anger lining every plane of his body, "What happened to you?" he sounds disgusted, "You care for this human vessel far more than you ever cared for me."

"I'll always care for you, Lucifer," Dean whispers.

"Then _why did you turn on me_!?" Lucifer screams, like a child raging against an unfairness done against him. It's his right, and it's Michael's fault this unfairness was done. His wings shift, and if Lucifer can see the silver steel and mercury pinions then he ignores them with an ice-hardened gaze, "Heaven's little _soldier_ ," he sneers.

"I didn't _want_ to," Dean tries to get his brother to see reason, "I _never_ wanted… they asked me to _kill_ you and--"

"And you locked me away instead," Sam's head tilts, voice growing cold and icy. Lucifer's always been ice and light and cold cold frost and now it makes Michael flinch away from it.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I know how it feels to be left behind and I'm sorry."

"Oh, _now_ you're sorry?" Lucifer's always been too prideful, and Michael doesn't know when or where it turned into spite along the way, "You want me to _forgive_ you? Forgive _you_?" his face rages through emotions, grace bubbling underneath Sam's skin like a rolling sea, "I may have, brother, once. You let me out after all except _that_?" his eyes fix on Dean's, cold and unyielding, "You were trying to kill me. You tore the cage into pieces and nearly tore me apart with it."

"I was trying to get you out!"

"Were you?" Lucifer's head twists, "Nooooo nonono you were going to kill me. Kill Lilith, rip the cage apart with me inside it, wasn't that how the plan went? Play along the demons, play along the angels and then rip everything apart at the last minute?"

"Lucifer--"

"No," Lucifer shakes his head, "‘For wise men know well enough what **_monsters_** _you make of them_ ,’" he lifts up his hands, the sky flashing around him, "I'm a monster, a freak, Sam and I both. So do your job, big brother. Be the good son just one more time. Lift up your blades and fight me."

"I don't want to fight you," Dean keeps his voice level.

Sam doesn't appear to care, pulling out his own sword. It's flat bladed, slightly curved and lethally sharp. It catches the light seeping from Sam's skin as Lucifer spins it once, "So you say. But you don't have much choice, brother. Fight me. Or die."

He leaps forwards them. Michael's swords whirl up to block the blow but the force of it sends him backwards, skidding across the grass. Again Lucifer leaps and Michael's swords whirl in an intricate pattern to defend himself. He doesn't attack, just holds his swords ready.

"Don't just stand there!" Lucifer shouts at him, "Come at me? Where's all the anger, the righteousness? Where's Heaven's justice now?"

"I've already got one brother killed," Michael says, "I'm not going to kill any more."

"Coward," Lucifer sneers, "If you won't fight I'll kill you myself."

Their blades clash in a flash of sparks and above them lightning illuminates two giant pairs of wings, streaming from their back.

 

Half the demons don't even have hosts.

It makes killing them easier as Jess cocks the shotgun violently, back and forwards and then aims at one of the hell fire forms that is crawling its way out of a grave. It dissipates in a cloud of sulphur and embers.

One of the possessed people scrambles forwards and Jess is readying herself to shoot a person when Castiel appears in a whirl of his trench coat. His hand slams into the demon's chest and they light up, flashing from within. Castiel follows up with two fingers to the forehead and the human drops.

"Are they--?"

"Sleeping," Castiel says, whirling around and grabbing the next possessed person who happens to pass him, "We're trying to limit human casualties."

"Right," Jess says, taking aim and shooting at another hell-spawn.  A gargoyle-type creature lunges at her and she turns, vaulting over a gravestone to get out of its path.

She turns, lifting her shotgun and aiming at the demon which spreads it skeletal limbs and leaps forwards--

There is a flash of light and the demon explodes. Bits of the gravestone goes with it and Jess staggers backwards, turning to see where the beam of light had come from.

Dean's fighting Sam to one side, deflecting blows that send energy sliding off the pair like water. Another gravestone explodes and Jess ducks out of the way of the pair's range.

Lucifer strikes out at Dean and for half a minute the pair whirl in a tangle of blades and glimmering grace. There's something wrong though, and it takes Jess a minute to realise what. It’s only when another gravestone shatters under a blow that is deflected by Dean's two swords that she sees it.

Dean isn't fighting. He's defending himself, but he makes no effort to strike back at Sam. He emerges from their intricate sword dance with a trickle of blood on one cheek and still standing defensively. Jess can almost see his wings, folded down and there to protect, not to fight.

Not to kill.

"Stop playing games, Michael!" Lucifer shouts, "Stop playing games and fight me! I've waited for this moment, don't deny me this."

He leaps forwards and Dean sends his sword skidding off away from him. Lucifer twists and his sword scrapes along Dean's chest. For a moment it bleeds blue grace and then Dean's moving out of reach, swords still spinning defensively.

Lucifer rounds on him, "This is no fun," he sneers, "Fight me, Michael. Knock me down. Put me in my rightful place."

"I won't fight you," Dean says, like a mantra he's probably been saying for a while now.

For a moment Lucifer looks touched, but it quickly twists into disgust, "You just don't want to hurt your precious human," he scoffs, "What if I told you he was dead already? What if I told you I didn't need the soul once he gave me permission and I tossed him into the deepest reach of the pit?"

Still Michael shakes his head, "I won't fight you. I refuse. You and Sam, you're my brothers and I…" he chokes, "I can't kill you."

"Then I'll **_rip you apart_** ," Lucifer screams, Sam's voice hoarse and desperate. Jess can't read the emotions flashing across Sam's familiar features, they're too wild, too raw and in a blur of movement and light the two archangels clash again.

Thunder rolls across the sky and lightning flashes. With a shower of sparks a nearby electric pylon creaks ominously, leaning and then sparking into flames. And this is just Lucifer fighting, Michael hasn't raised a blade against his brother yet.

If they fight… if Dean stops holding back and they start crossing swords for real then Jess can only imagine the damage they will do. There is another clang of blades and the clouds above her ripple, the grace barely contained within the human bodies. Dean's eyes are blue and Sam's got light streaming from his shoulders in the mockery of ice carved wings.

"Fight me, curse you!" Lucifer shouts, "Do your job like you always do!"

"I am," Dean spins aside too late and the sword catches him in the side. Pushing his advantage Lucifer punches him across the face, blade swinging. Dean curses as it rips across sending one of his swords flying across the graveyard. His fingers scrabble against his side, holding in blood and grace as he twists out of the way of another blow, "I'm making a choice, brother, like you did. I'm choosing not to fight. I'm choosing to save you."

"You can't save me," Lucifer mocks, and his blade slices Michael's cheek, sending the blonde's head whipping to one side. Blood clings to his silver blade as he advances on his older brother, "Look at you. You can barely save yourself. You can't save anyone, not the humans, not your family," he twists the words to shreds with venom dripping off his tongue; "You certainly can't save Sam."

"Can I save _you_ , Lucifer?" Dean asks, "Or are you too far gone?"

Lucifer swings his blade wildly, and Dean deflects the anger and frustration with calm resignation. He's prepared to die, Jess realises, he's prepared to die instead of his brother.

She doesn't know if she's talking about Sam or Lucifer, not anymore.

Lucifer flings out a hand, ice burning in the rolling white grace that clings to his fingers. Dean ducks and rolls, sword flicking around and twisting. The air around his shoulders shimmers with fire and heat and Lucifer whirls around. For a moment the heat and ice clash and then part, Dean looking worse for wear. He's still not defending himself.

Lucifer can see that too and it infuriates him, "You can’t do this forever, so how about you give up now and just fight me! It’s what you were made to do, isn’t it? It’s what the good son would do," his eyes flash with ice, "Fight me! Come at me, Michael!" His next blow sends Dean staggering, and Lucifer is right. Dean can’t keep this up forever; he’s already tiring, already bleeding blood and grace.

Still Dean stands defiant and stubborn and Winchester’s are all stubborn it must be a family trait, Jess thinks.

A family trait.

Lucifer’s eyes flare with ice, his blade slices across Dean’s shoulder and the blade twists to sink in again and--

Winchester’s are all stubborn.

Lucifer’s grip on the blade falters. Fingers tighten, relax and then tighten again. Muscle freezes and the ice…

The ice thaws a little.

Lightning flashes. It reflects off not icy grace but something else, something that stops the blade, that blinks back tears and shouts hoarsely at his brother, “Come on! Fight me!”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, “You’ll have to kill me, brother.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sam’s head shakes, and there’s Lucifer there lining every movement but there’s something--

Something different.

Lucifer’s not in control.

Dean spits blood from a busted lip and the light in Sam’s eyes twists in another blinding flash of lightning, human and desperate.

“Come on!” Sam staggers slightly, “What’s wrong with you, you’re Heaven’s nuclear weapon! Don’t you want a chance to end the Devil?”

Dean limps backwards, frowning and head tilting as he sees what Jess now knows. It’s in the subtle stance chance, in the controlled tone giving way to desperation, in the emotions that are slightly more raw, more real than before.

“Sam?”

“Stand there and die then,” Sam gestures at the grace bleeding through where Dean’s hand is pressed to his stomach, “Or end this. End this like you fought so hard for because… I’m… I’m not going to let him kill you.”

“Lucifer?” Dean’s searching for his brother, for which one speaks to him, “No, Sam…” he sounds too hopeful, too lost, “ _Sammy_?”

Sam's arm drops, sword limp in his hand as he stares in almost amazement at Dean, "It's me," he whispers, broken and amazed but Sam, it's Sam, "It's me," he breathes, "I-- I've got him, I… he's fighting me but… _Dean_?"

Dean straightens, hope flickering in his gaze, "Yes," he says, stepping forwards, "It's me, Sam, it's always been me, I'm so sorry, Sam, so sorry…"

"Dean," Sam chokes out, stepping back.

"You have to evict him," Dean breathes, "You have to… I'm sorry, I didn't want it to end like this…"

"No," Sam shakes his head, tears in his eyes, "Neither did I."

And then he brings Lucifer's angel blade around and crashing into his chest.

 

The blade sinks into human flesh and angel grace and there's nothing Dean can do to stop it. He sees the moment the blade penetrates, the moment something in Sam's eyes, human soul and angel grace are pierced with the metal blade.

And then he's there, catching Sam as he falls, his wings flaring out and around them, encasing the two of them even as the grace shatters.

Dean watches with horror as Lucifer's grace burns. Wings of ice sear out and burn across his skin as Dean reaches out to grab his brother's body. The grace explodes out, cold and fresh like dew in the morning.

Cold and fresh and burning.

It's blinding to look at, and Sam's running too warm, his eyes bright with white-light and Dean tries to do something, anything--

It makes no difference. The archangel blade splinters through Lucifer's ice cold grace and Lucifer…

Lucifer _shatters_.

Sam's just the receptacle for the explosion. Lucifer's gone, Lucifer is burning but Sam…

Dean tries to hold him together, wrapping his body around his baby brother even as grace explodes around him. His wings flare out and they feel far more phantom and unreal than they ever did when he still longed for his grace. For a moment - just a moment - he hates them, hates the bladed feathers, gilded gold and silver wings and burning flames of grace that rolls within him.

But then the hatred dies. He can't change anything.

He never could.

His eyes sting. His vision blurs out as the last of the grace burns, searing across his chest. He barely feels the pain. His vision swims like he's underwater and he blinks, something warm and wet trailing down his cheek.

He's crying, he realises with some surprise. He's crying.

Sam's body is warm, the heart beating erratically but slowing down, bleeding out. Lucifer's gone. And Sam's dying.

This time the tears come. This time the tears don't stop.

 

The sky above is pale rolling clouds, the storm long gone. The demons that had rained down had fled with the first explosion of Lucifer's grace.

Jess staggers up from where she had been crouched besides a gravestone. It's cold beneath her fingers as she pulls herself up, looking to where she had last seen the brothers.

For a moment the sun appears, glinting off gold and bronze feathers that look like they've been forged individually, each feather, each steel and copper and iron and gold and bronze feather perfect in the greater image.

Then Jess blinks and the wings are gone and it's just Dean, cradling Sam's body to him.

"No," John appears besides her, claw marks down one cheek but otherwise unharmed. "No, SAM!"

Castiel steps forwards, staring with wide-eyes, "Lucifer is dead," he announces, like Jess can't see that, like she can't see that Sam is--

She chokes, hand closing on the gravestone to keep her standing. Sam's dead. Again. It's like sort of sick joke, they did this to save Sam, to save him and instead--

Dean's a wreck curled up around his brother. Neither Jess nor John have the heart to intrude on something that seems so private it makes them want to look away.

Angels don't have that hesitancy.

"Michael."

With a flap of wings the angel called Zachariah steps into view, flanked by two of his lackeys. He's grinning like Christmas came early.

Dean stiffens, shoulders rippling in a movement that no doubt sends his wings flexing almost threateningly. For a moment he curls over Sam's body further, shoulders hunching.

"You did it," Zachariah sounds amazed, "You killed Lucifer."

Dean says nothing, and nobody bothers to correct the angel.

"I've gotta admit," Zachariah whistles, "We had our doubts but… wow, you stepped up to the plate. I'm impressed. I'm really, really impressed. Didn't think you had it in you."

"Go away," Jess shouts, "Leave us alone, haven't you angels done enough damage?"

"Oh little girl," Zachariah's tone is patronising, "This is just the start. This is the beginning. The world will be cleansed and we shall have our paradise." He sounds in awe. Amazed. He's staring up at the sun sparking through the clouds like it heralds a new day.

But there's something that glows brighter.

Dean straightens, uncurling from Sam's body. Light flashes like burning fire where his wings are extended. He stands, shoulders stiff and grace pooling around his form. He steps slowly around Sam's form towards where Zachariah is still grinning.

"It's time, Michael," the angel says, "You see it now, don't you?"

"Yes," Dean says, head tilting to one side all angel, entirely angel now, "You want paradise? You want absolution?"

"It is written," Zachariah says.

"Yes," Dean says, eyes blue and not human, "And I? _I don't care_."

 

Zachariah frowns at him. Michael bides his time, watches the angel puzzle it out.

Out of the corner of his eye Jess steps forwards, "Stop it!" she demands, "Dean, don't listen to him, don’t go with him and you…" she turns to Zachariah, "Get away from him!"

A flick of Zachariah's fingers and suddenly Jess can't talk. She claws at her throat, eyes wide. John looks to her in alarm, "Stop it!" he says, "Dean…"

Michael ignores him. He's not important now. John's not someone he has to listen to, not anymore.

Neither is Heaven.

"What do you mean 'you don't care'?" Zachariah sounds outraged, "Michael, the apocalypse is over! Lucifer is dead, it's time to cleanse the world of its sinners…"

And Michael knows full well what that entails, knows exactly what Zachariah means when he talks about cleansing. "You want to heal the world?" Michael asks, "Purify it?"

"Yes," Zachariah says, "Raphael didn't think you'd understand but you do…"

Michael nods, because he does. He understands now more than ever, "You want this world purified?" he asks, then steps back, gesturing, "Step forwards, Zach, let me start with you." He enjoys the confusion and indecision waver in Zach's eyes, "I'll tear it out," Michael promises, a dark tone to his voice, "I'll rip away all the mistakes from you. Because you see purity isn't order and instructions and a careful plan. Purity is chaos and fighting and light. Purity is life and living and this, this here?" he gestures around to the gravestones, to the morning sky, "This world is already purer than you can ever dream."

Zach steps back. "You…" he shakes his head, "You're not… you're not listening, oh, Michael," he sounds almost sad, Michael thinks, and it's appropriate, "It appears humanity left a bigger taint on you than I thought.  _‘For if God spared not the angels that sinned, but cast them down to hell, and delivered them into chains of darkness, to be reserved unto judgment’_ ; This is it. This is his judgement. That's your job, isn't it?"

"Didn't you get the memo?" Michael's voice is calm, his heart steady as his head tilts to one side, "I quit."

"You don't have a choice!" Zachariah bristles, and his form shimmers too many heads and too many wings. Strange for a human. Normal for a cherubim. "You're not human! Free will isn't an option, not for you!" Besides him the two angels with him ready their blades. It's laughable, Michael ponders, that they think they have a chance of beating him.

" _Free will_?" Michael laughs. It's hollow and empty and Sam's gone, Sam's gone and it feels like half his soul is torn in two. He was grace and willpower and a soul that wasn't even whole anymore, lost without Sam, without--

He's just grace now. Grace and fury.

"No," Michael agrees, "Free will doesn't change anything."

Zachariah looks shocked, eyeing Michael up and down with a sneer on his pudgy face, "Being human made you weak," he says, with some disgust.

"No," Michael's face is like carved marble, "No, everyone keeps saying that but they're wrong. Humanity isn't a weakness."

Without warning he brings his swords swinging upwards, and Zachariah chokes. Jess' hand flies to her mouth and she spins away as Michael twists the swords up through Zachariah's jaw. The skull splinters under the metal and he stays there, watching as the angel burns.

"Humanity isn't a weakness," Michael says again as Zachariah’s smouldering grace reflects in his eyes, "Being an angel is," and he yanks the blades out, letting Zachariah's corpse drop. Wisps of ashen feathers drift in the breeze as he steps around the body, looking towards the other two angels who hesitate there, not knowing where to turn. "Well, brothers?" he asks, because this is it. Lucifer's dead Sam's dead and he'll tear all of Heaven apart if he has to, tear out the corruption and rot and-- "Absolution or freedom?"

They don't know what he's asking. Of course they don't, Heaven's corrupt to the core. Michael's eyes narrow, and he makes to push past them, to spread his wings and take flight. Lucifer's dead and the others still have to pay.

Michael was the Flood. He's ripped apart an entire race before.

He can do it again.

"Dean!" someone shouts. He pauses, voice almost lost in the crowded cries from Heaven. "Dean!" they shout again and he half-turns, taking in Jess and John and--

Castiel is crouched over Sam's body, blue eyes desperate, "Dean," he says again, and Michael's all wrath and fury and grace but for some reason he pauses, waiting for what Castiel has to say. "It's over," Castiel - Cas - chokes out, "Don't… please don't let there be more fighting."

Why not? Michael wants to scream. He'll start a civil war if he has to, can't Castiel see that it's necessary…

"Give me one reason not to," he says, because he knows that Castiel won't be able to find one.

Castiel's head ducks down to Sam's body then back up, "Sam needs you," he says.

"Sam's _dead_ ," Michael snarls.

Castiel's throat pulses and he shakes his head, "No," he says, "He's not."

 

Michael's by his side in an instant. He's terrifying, he's absolute power and Castiel will follow him anywhere. To Hell, to Purgatory, he’ll even stand by Michael’s side in a war against Heaven if that is what Michael decides.

But there is a faint fluttering pulse beneath Castiel's fingers that suggests they might end up with a garrison on earth instead. The heartbeat is weak and Castiel’s grace can barely keep it going. Michael's bronze wings fold against his back, the archangel’s power scrabbling at the soul and body beneath him trying to keep it breathing, "He's… how…"

"I don't know," Castiel says, because he'd thought Sam was dead too. There's no way he could have survived the burnout of Lucifer's grace but somehow…

Their grace sinks into the body, flesh knitting together and Sam's healing. It’s slow, it could still be potentially fatal, healing together the tears in soul and flesh that the archangel blade wrought but somehow it’s working, Sam's still breathing, heart still beating, still living...

Castiel's eyes close and his head rolls to the sky. The sun is warm on his face.

 _Thank you, father,_ he thinks, and he might be imagining but for a moment there is the warmth of an invisible hand cupping his cheek and then it's gone.

"Is it true?" Jess asks, "Is he… is he alive? He’s no longer possessed…?"

Dean looks up, and its Dean this time, none of Michael's righteous fury within his eyes now, "Yes," he barely dares to admit it, "Yes…"

"Michael…" one of the angels that had been with Zachariah hovers awkwardly, "Michael… what are your orders…?"

Dean looks like he'd whirl around and stab the angel would it not take him further away from Sam. There is still a moment when he looks like he might do just that, but he stops, taking a deep breath, “Anna,” he breathes, “Anna, can you…?”

There’s a fluttering of wings and another angel steps onto the plane of existence with red hair and wings that are spring and flowers and leaves of a tree in bloom, “Michael,” she says, offering Castiel a weak smile as he recognises her, “What shall I tell Heaven?”

“The Apocalypse is over,” Dean says, “Lucifer is dead and… nothing changes. Earth is left alone."

The angel pair looks about to question his statement but Anna turns around bristling with command, “Well?” she barks out, “You heard him. Let’s go.”

Angels are used to obeying commands and with a flap of wings they vanish. Anna follows after giving Dean a reassuring nod and a smile.

There is a cough. A dry rasp. "Dean?"

Castiel's wings slump in relief and the look on Dean's face as he turns in amazement to where Sam is blinking up at him in confusion is the most beautiful thing Cas has ever seen.

"Yeah, I'm here, Sammy," Dean says, "I'm here…"

"Uh… did we win?" Sam asks, frowning weakly.

Dean doesn't answer, but leaning over Jess nods, grinning wildly, "Yeah," she says, "Yeah, we won. You won, Sam…"

They won, Castiel thinks, and above them the sun shines down.

 

The Roadhouse is still closed. Ellen's probably considering either moving and not telling them where their new place is or just issuing a Winchester wide banning issue applying to them and their significant others. Jess looks mildly put out by that. Castiel doesn’t really appear to mind, but then Dean’s still trying to get him to use the door, so it might be a while before he understands what it means.

In the corner Bobby and John are glaring at each other over a game of pool. Ash is watching, but whether he's watching the game or waiting for the moment the pool table is free for a nap is hard to tell.

Jess and Jo sit exchanging hunting stories by the bar. Ellen is keeping their drinks topped up and Dean...

Dean drops off a bottle of pure vodka in front of Castiel. Jo notices too late to stop the angel drinking it and instead she just gets to marvel as Castiel drains half of it in one gulp. It's like it is only water. Even the taste barely makes the angel flinch; he just frowns at it, "Is there a purpose to this drink?" Jo gapes nearby.

Dean frowns at him, then sighs, "Maybe if you drink enough of it," he says with a sigh.

"Nu uh," Jo shakes her head, "You'll drink Mom and I out of business."

Dean pats Castiel reassuringly on the shoulder, "We'll break into a liquor store sometime, don't worry," he stage whispers like it's some sort of conspiracy.

“I don’t think that is legal,” Castiel says with a squint at the vodka bottle then takes another sip. He glances quizzically at Dean, “Are you…?”

“I’m…” Dean’s eyeing up the door, “Cover for me, will you?”

He just hopes Castiel has learnt enough about humans to know what he means by that as he slips out of the door silently. Outside the night is clear. Stars are pinpricks in the fabric of the universe, and the sleek black body of the Impala blends in with the night.

Sam’s sitting on the hood, his lanky frame curled over a newspaper. He doesn’t look up as Dean approaches, but he must know his brother’s there. Dean holds out one of the beers he’d picked up on the way out like some sort of twisted peace offering.

Sam takes it. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“I left Castiel with a bottle of vodka,” Dean says, because he doesn’t know where to start this conversation, he’s not good at this, “He was half-way through it when I left.”

“Isn’t getting angels drunk a sin?” Sam asks, not looking up from the paper, “You’re a bad influence.”

“I raised _you_ , didn’t I?” Dean asks.

With a sigh Sam tosses the newspaper to the side and shifts, just enough so that there is space for Dean next to him on the hood of the Impala. “Yeah,” he says, admitting it and there’s a note in his voice that for a moment Dean thinks is annoyance or regret or resentment but, “You did. Must have done something right because I turned out okay, huh?”

It’s none of those, Dean realises. It’s gratitude.

“See?” Dean’s mouth quirks up, “I’m the best influence.”

And Dean barely dares to believe it but Sam's smiling, "Yeah. The best. Uh… Dean…" he shakes his head short and sharp, "Michael," he corrects himself, gaze dropping…

"Dean," Dean tells him, "I'm Dean. To you. Here. Now. There's no difference, and they're just names but…"

"I thought you couldn't separate yourself," Sam says, frowning at him, "I thought it wasn't that simple."

"It isn't. I haven't. It's still me."

Sam stares at him with wide eyes, "But… how did you. Can. What. Can't you…"

"I found a balance," Dean shrugs, grinning weakly at him, "Between Dean and Michael. Oil and water, Sammy. Oil and water."

Sam's eyes are wide with a fragile hope, "Lucifer was going to kill you," he says, "He was going to… I was going to… I shouldn't have said 'yes' but I thought…" Sam stops talking, staring at him, "You're still my brother, aren't you?"

Dean's head drops, shoulders heavy with guilt, "I always was. I just…" his fingers curl around the amulet, "I guess I didn't see it for a while…"

A warm hand wraps around his, and Sam's fingers twist until he can see the bronzed head shining in the night, "Always, huh?" Sam says, staring at it. Beneath the amulet there are deep red burns, the imprints of Lucifer's wings burnt across Dean's chest. Sam's knuckles brush over them gently and then he retreats, "I'm sorry for killing him," he says, and then shakes his head, "Actually I'm _not_. He was going to _kill_ you; he was going _to use me to kill you_. I'm just sorry that you're sad."

Dean swallows down a lump in his throat, "It's not… I was going to kill him anyway. The destruction of the cage was meant to… Lucifer hasn't been my brother for a long, long time, Sam. But you…" he meets his little brother's gaze, "You've been there for me."

"I wasn't," Sam shakes his head, "I was at Stanford when you were rotting in that hospital…"

"And I was playing with demons and angels when you were trying to get me back," Dean's laugh is hollow, "I got you possessed by the Devil, so where does that leave us now?"

"Here," Sam shrugs, gesturing to the Impala and the warm light of the Roadhouse, "We got through, didn't we?"

"Yeah," Dean leans back, the beer growing warm and undrunk in his hand, "But where do we go from here?"

Sam grows hesitant, turning away, "I thought… I thought you were going back to Heaven. With Anna and Castiel and…"

"Go back?" Dean's face twists, "I… fell, Sam. I… I don't want to go back."

Sam's not looking at him as Dean elbows him, trying to get Sam's attention. Slowly, reluctantly, Sam meets his gaze, hazel eyes a mirror of his own, the brown side of hazel that look almost blue in the night.

"Sam," he says, "I'm not leaving. Not for Heaven, at any rate. Even if I was welcome back there, which I doubt I am, I… I don't _want_ to go back."

"So you're…" Sam sounds almost hopeful, "You're _staying_?"

 _Only if you want me,_ Dean doesn't say, it doesn't need saying Sam hears it anyway, and his eyes tell Dean the answer to that. It gives him the chance to quirk up his lips in a smile that's only half fake and say, "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"You want to stay with me?" Sam checks, and now who's the insecure one, Dean thinks, wow, they're both slightly screwed up here, "But… my powers… the demon blood… I'm unclean. I'm… I'm not…"

"You're my _brother_ ," Dean says, like it justifies everything. And it shouldn't. There should be a point where they stops mattering but Sam looks up with understanding in his gaze, but what that word means to them it doesn't mean to other people.

Sam's grin is weak, but it's pure happiness there. He clears his throat, grabbing at the newspaper discarded next to him, "I found a hunt," he says, passing it to Dean, "Suicide of a guy jumping out of a locked room but cameras show a girl going in with him and never coming out. Crawford Hall or something and get this. Local legend says its haunted."

Dean clears his throat, "Sounds like our sort of gig," he says, "And you… uh… you want to do it?"

"Yeah," Sam says, a teasing edge to his grin, "I want to try out that flaming sword of yours."

"I don't have a--" Dean elbows him for his cheek, and Sam's long limbs flail as he attempts to stay balanced on the hood of the car, nearly knocking Dean off. Sam's happiness is infectious, Dean finds himself grinning as he rescues his little brother from a face-plant with the dirt.

Their quiet laughter rings through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact of the chapter: I realised Dean's given away two normal angel blades now. He started out with three blades: a normal angel one and a pair of archangel blades. He gave his normal blade to Bobby, and then stole Azazel's and gave it to John. I thought it was poetic that his own got given to his adopted father, while John gets a second-hand blade. I imagine Sam gets to keep Lucifer's sword.


End file.
